Awakening
by Tempestt
Summary: Trapped with a seriously injured Slayer with a wicked personality disorder, hunted by an unknown beast, Spike must fight his nature to prove he is both Guardian and Warrior while bearing witness to Buffy's Awakening.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS. It is owned by Joss Whedon and affiliates. No copyright infringement intended.

I also regret to say that I don't live in a complete vacuum and as such, not all my ideas are my own. The Big Bad in this story is derived from Adam Nevill's _The Ritual,_ the first horror novel in a long time to scare the panties right off me. Something my husband very much appreciated.

I really wanted to participate in the October Challenge Month at EF so a huge thanks to Kittyfajitas and Juggler for making that possible with their challenges. I felt really bad about staring a story while I have so many WIPS out there, but this story is mostly done. _Mewstly._ So I'm confident that you'll won't be left hangin'.

Spoilers: Canon up to "Harsh Light of Day".

Many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm for looking this over for me. However, its gone through some heavy revisions so any mistakes are entirely my fault for not sending it off to her again.

 **Awakening**

Chapter One

It was the sound that woke her. A nausea-inducing cacophony of noise pressing on her from all angles. The high pitched screams pierced her brain with knife-like intensity, along with the shrieking of rending metal, all layered on a continuous mechanical hum that made her bones vibrate. But it was the bovine cough, guttural-rough and deep-throated, ricocheting off metal bowels, that sprung her completely into consciousness.

The first thing she noticed when she opened her eyes was a pool of vomit at her feet. The acid taste in her mouth told her it was hers. Followed quickly by the realization that she was strung up like a side of beef, _sans_ the hook in her back. Reinforced, canvas cuffs abraded her wrists, attached to the corners of the wire mesh cage where she hung limply, her knees still too weak to support her weight.

She tried to focus on the last thing she could remember. The frat party; loud music and underage drinking making her a little uncomfortable. She wasn't supposed to be the one at the center of a good time, she was supposed to be at the fringes protecting those would couldn't see to themselves.

Parker with his soulful brown eyes… Spike in all his snarky splendor, ridiculing her. They fought. Spike collapsed. Then pain, erupting through her entire body, convulsing her muscles until it felt like they were going to snap under the strain.

After that she couldn't remember. She closed her eyes, willing her broken skull to mend itself back together, quickly opening them again when her body shuddered with impact.

She lifted her head as minimally as possible, watching as a black boot kicked at the front corner where her cage intersected with a second one. She turned her head ever so slightly, eyes widening when she recognized her mortal enemy, strung up exactly as she was, trying to kick the panel out of his cage.

"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey." The strong East End accent rolled over her. Normally, it was delivered with lecherous undertones or murderous intent. The undercurrent of fear she heard in the falsely cheerful words did not settle her stomach. She had never seen Spike afraid. Ever.

She shook her head in an attempt to clear the spirals of haziness that encircled her brain. She needed to get her bearings. Pushing down the natural anxiety she felt at waking in an unfamiliar place, in an untenable situation, she called up the instincts of the Slayer. If Spike's tone was any indication, they were in danger. And if there was one thing she had learned throughout the years, it was that Spike was a survivor. If he said it was time to get the hell out of Dodge, then dammit, time to mount up and ride.

The bovine cough echoed, and Buffy felt something icy slide down her spine, nestling in the pit of her stomach. She yanked on her cuffs, frowning when they didn't give. Swallowing down her rising bile, she examined their surroundings. She and Spike were strung up in a dual set of wire cages similar to the one in which they kept the sicko baby killer in the movie _Con Air_. And yes, she definitely needed to stop letting Xander choose the movies they watched on Scooby night. Of course, the ambiance helped tickle the memory. They were most definitely in the belly of a cargo plane or some sort of military transport, which explained the constant rumble engulfing them.

As far as places to be strung up in, it was a new and somewhat pleasant change from the usually dark, dank caverns. The canvas cuffs were kinda nice, too – not nearly as chafey as manacles.

 _Okay, Summers. Snap out of it._

Screams choked off abruptly, and she realized with a dull sense of horror that she'd been tuning them out. She shot a terrified glance over her shoulder, only to see another, much larger cage. The steel mesh was bent outward, black, shaggy fur clinging to the sharp tines where something clambered out. Beyond the cage, a thick metal door teetered on a single hinge. Something in the other room hacked low and wet in its throat. The sound, though less abrasive than the previous cough, seemed to set Spike into overdrive. He kicked the cage with renewed fury, drawn brackets of fear etched around his thinned lips.

Reinvigorated by Spike's energy, Buffy added her kicks to the adjoined corner of their cage. Even with their combined force, the welded steel cage shuddered, but remained solid.

The plane pitched and she lost her footing, slamming backwards as far as her restraints would allow.

"We're goin' down," Spike seethed. His blue eyes were bright with panic, and Buffy could barely find the spit to swallow. "If we don't get these restraints off, we're goin' to lose our soddin' arms when we hit." He turned away, but over the roar of the powerful engines she heard him mutter, "If we even live."

"Spike?" She hated the uncertain quaver in her voice. Only a year ago they had fought together at the magic shop. He had danced, parried, and snarked while imparting terrible truths about the reality of love and lust, doing his damndest to point out all the flaws in her relationship with Angel – just for the thrill of it, she was sure. She had never hated someone as intensely as she hated him in that moment. The hatred had yet to ease, but it was overridden by fear. She didn't even know what she was asking from him in that moment, what she needed. She was scared – really, really scared.

He looked at her, no reassurance in his gaze. His blue eyes icy, but not hateful. Maybe a little bit sad, and that only served to intensify her fear.

"Not goin' to lie to you, kitten," he said softly. She swallowed, allowing the tears she would have normally hidden from her enemy to well up. She knew the warrior's code. Never show weakness to your enemy. Never let them see you cry. Never let them see you afraid. But this wasn't a moment of conquest and defeat between them. This wasn't a fight to the death. It was an execution by fate. As warriors, they resented dying by means other than bloodshed. This was not how they were meant to die.

They were supposed to go out in a blaze of glory, another warrior taking their lives, preferably each other if at all possible. They weren't supposed to die in something as utterly pedestrian as an accident. It didn't matter if it was a plane crash, an auto accident, or a slip in the bathtub. Warriors didn't go down without a fight. But how do you fight fate? How do you fight something so completely out of your control? On this both enemies were reconciled with each other. This was not an honorable death.

The plane dipped again; the tenor of the engines changing as the air became thicker the closer to the ground they dove. Buffy strained against her restraints, her fingers just able to curl around the wire mesh that separated them. Spike shifted towards her, stopping when something hard knocked against his knee. Whoever captured them hadn't bothered to divest him of his heavy leather duster, nor of the contents of his pockets.

"Slayer. I need you to get something out of my pocket."

Buffy's eyes roved over him. "I don't think I can reach, Spike."

"Yeah." Normally, there would be an exchange of snark with the passing of obvious information, but now was a time for action, not useless words. Spike lifted his foot and pinned the hem of his jacket against the steel cage. He wrapped his hands around the straps of his cuffs, lifting his weight onto them as he slowly slid the leather duster up the cage towards Buffy's hand. He braced his other foot on the cage door, using it to help walk himself up the cage until he was hanging nearly upside down.

Finally, he was able to draw his pocket even with Buffy's fingers. It took some fumbling since she was only able to scissor two fingers through the diamond pattern of the mesh, and she had to gather up more of the leather to try and fish her way inside his pocket.

"What am I looking for?"

"A switchblade."

Her fingers slithered against something cool and solid. Very carefully she pinched it between her fore and middle fingers and withdrew from his pocket. She inched it upwards until the hilt slid into her palm. She lost no time depressing the button, not even flinching when the sharp blade snapped out. Instead of trying to cut through the thick canvas cuffs, she concentrated on using the blade as leverage to slip the straps from the buckles. Once she had one hand free, she quickly worked the buckles on the other strap. She faced the front of the cage, realizing instantly the limitations of her new found freedom. She was still locked in.

"Slayer."

She whirled towards Spike, wordlessly handing him the switchblade hilt first so he could undo his restraints. The plane tilted and Buffy's breath caught when Spike almost lost the knife. He nicked his finger on the blade, but regained his grip and was soon free.

Something loud scraped the belly of the plane. Spike turned towards her, his eyes wide. "Get down!" he ordered. They dropped to the floor, curling up at the bottom of the cages, using the walls of their prison to brace their bodies as much as they could. At the last moment, before everything went to a fiery blaze of hell, Buffy felt Spike twine his fingers over hers where they were clenched around the wires of the cage.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Many, many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm. I've yet again done some tweaking, so any mistakes are mine for not sending it off again to her.

 **Awakening**

Chapter Two

Spike sprang forcibly into consciousness, every inch of his body aching, fire searing along his right side. He tried bolting upright, instinct screaming at him to scramble into the shadows. An animal yowl seeped from between lips stretched tight over sharp canines, as the long bones of his legs ground together.

Spike blinked the blood from his eyes, glancing down the length of his body. A large slab of metal pinned him helplessly to the floor in a pale pool of weak sunlight.

The intense burning warned him to move or be ash in the wind. He wrapped his bloody hands around the sharp, twisted edge of the metal and ignoring the agonizing protests of his body, he strained to thrust it aside with a vamped-out roar. The heavy metal slab flipped through the air, landing outside the plane with a hollow thump.

He belly-crawled across the slick metal floor into a thin veil of shadows, dragging his crippled legs behind him. Frantically, he patted out the small sparks of flames igniting his clothing, ignoring spurts of pain rippling across his burned flesh.

Certain he was safe, he allowed himself a moment of complete stillness. He closed his eyes, concentrating on emptying his mind. His harsh panting echoed inside the metal bowels of the plane, and it took effort and all of his meditation tricks to still his convulsing lungs. The stillness that came with the complete lack of breathing brought a sense of serenity to him. A sense of safety and calm.

Only then did logic assert itself over his panicked animal brain. He opened his eyes to examine his surroundings. He was still inside the mangled plane, of which a large section had been ripped away, allowing midmorning light to flood most of the compartment, effectively trapping him until the sun dipped below the horizon.

He stared out the large gash, his nocturnally oriented eyes stinging at the bright light. Desperate for any familiar landmark, any recognizable sign of where they crashed, he blinked away his tears, making out an expansive mountainside thickly blanketed with evergreens through his blurry vision. Between the trees, deep in the shadows, muddy heaps of snow piled against the sappy trunks. He took a deep breath of thin, cold air unpolluted by the stink civilization.

Blood tainted the air – gallons of it, and mostly dead. Corpses, dressed in military fatigues, were strewn about the fuselage, body parts littering the ground outside. A singular, spicy scent called to him, so much sweeter than normal blood it made his mouth water.

He shifted his weight, grimacing when pain radiated through his entire body. He blinked his yellow eyes to adjust to the shadows of the plane, swallowing at the sight before him.

Buffy hadn't been as lucky as Spike to be thrown free from the cage. Instead, she dangled off the ground, impaled on the thin shaft of rebar connecting their cages. It speared her through the back, exiting just beneath the ball of her shoulder. The serrated edges of the wire mesh pierced her back along a jagged line from shoulder to hip, and he could tell she had a pierced lung from her ragged breathing.

One of her sandals was missing and the shell pink of her toenails captivated him as they dragged through the growing pool of blood beneath her. It was achingly clear to the monster who'd spent a century watching death steal away souls that it wouldn't be long before Buffy shuffled off the mortal coil.

Terrible thirst wrenched his gut, twisting his broken body, his injuries demanding he feed. He slithered over to the Slayer, dipping his pink tongue into the deep crimson pool of blood at her feet, lapping like it was a saucer of milk. The orgasmic pleasure of his first taste of her unique flavor ignited all his senses.

She was exquisite. She tasted bright as sunlight, as powerful as a summer storm, and as sweet as honey. Her blood zinged through his veins, until his body sang with a new, never before achieved level of awareness. The air took on colors, sounds became ripples, his senses soared until he was certain the answers to all the questions of the universe were within his feeble grasp.

Beneath his layered muscles, cracked bones realigned, angling into place, knitting themselves together at a rate that could never be achieved feasting on humans. It was _amazing._ She was amazing.

Addicted and ravenous, he licked the floor clean. He could almost feel the individual cells of his body vibrating, her blood effervescing just below his skin, like champagne running through his veins. He was desperate for more. He _needed_ more.

He threaded his fingers through the diamond wire mesh of the mostly intact cage and pulled himself to his feet. The bones in his legs ground together, the newly knit breaks barely holding. Panting with exertion, he leaned against her swaying body, her blood soaking through his shirt until he could feel the warm dampness of it on his skin. She hung limply, and he had to balance his weight with one hand on the cage so he could wrap the other in her hair to lever her face up to his.

The diffused light caressed her flawless skin. He had always thought of her as a golden goddess with her deliciously bronzed skin and honey blonde hair. He may have been loyal to Drusilla, but he was a bloke who knew how to appreciate a woman. The slayer had always been attractive to him, even now with skin vampire-white from blood loss. He didn't like her as much all colorless and cold, but she was still beautiful. It was a shame to see her go.

He licked a swath across her cheek, shuddering bodily at the sweet, liquid sunshine taste of her. He lapped at her like an excited puppy. If he had a tail he would've wagged it. She was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, and that included his first mouthful of sire blood and the Chinese chit he'd drained.

So immersed in bliss, he didn't notice when the atmosphere changed. Ions charged around him, ozone singed the air. Something dominant and primal approached, swamping him with power, calling to him on a basic level. A visceral urge in his guts drove him to flee, but the feeling of ominous inescapabilty paralyzed him. Instinct forced his demon to the forefront as he jerked away from the Slayer with a snarl.

Her dainty hand snapped around his throat, lifting him up until his toes brushed the ground. Just as well. He had the feeling that if she wasn't holding him, he would have sunk to his knees in abject submission.

The woman staring back at him was not the Buffy Summers he knew. This was a being of unassailable power. Ancient and elemental. Her lineage sang to his demon, making him feel insignificant on the scale of her awesomeness.

He stared at her, transfixed. Ethereal eyes stared out of Buffy's face. They were devoid of a pupil, glowing white with misty tendrils of power seeping from the corners, dispersing into the ether. She looked blind, but he was struck with the certainty that she saw everything, including the very darkest of his secrets hidden deep inside.

When she spoke, her voice resonated with the strength of a hundred clarions, overwhelming and incomprehensible, shaking the world out of focus. He whined deep in his throat, unable to struggle away to cover his sensitive eardrums. Blood dribbled from his ears, and he angled his head away in helpless defeat.

The reverberation ceased, but the world still trembled with the echo of her power. Spike slumped forward in her hand, staring at her with frightened yellow eyes and felt himself sink further into a sense of predestination. There was no escaping her. There was no eluding her. She was a force of inevitability.

She spoke again with authority, her voice the soothing tranquility of waves crashing upon a beach. Still harsh to his ears, but understandable.

"We will not allow you to eliminate this vessel, vampire. She is the first in a millennia to have potential."

Spike was torn. On the one hand, his innate rebellious nature demanded he take a poke and to hell with the consequences. A brassed off primordial slayer would be something to see, even if it was the _very_ last thing he saw. However, another, larger part of him was pissing his trousers in fear. Vampires didn't grow as old as he without having a healthy respect for the things that could spectacularly kick your arse.

His inner debate proved inconsequential when she tossed him across the cargo hold, his already partially-crushed body exploding in pain. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a silver trace of _something_ indescribable at her back. It couldn't possibly be what he thought it to be, and as he sank into unconsciousness he told himself it was only an aura of displaced sunlight.

8888

A soft weeping awakened Spike. At first he thought it was Dru. She often collapsed into quiet sobs after a painful vision, requiring gentle handling to comfort and soothe her. He pulled himself to his feet before even fully conscious. Only when the sunlight singed his hand did he fully became cognizant of his surroundings. It wasn't Dru who was weeping. It was Buffy.

She hung helplessly impaled. She had one hand wrapped around the gory spike thrusting beneath the ball of her shoulder, the other arm hanging limply at her side. Her toes kicked uselessly at the floor, scrambling for any kind of purchase to help ease the heavy weight of her body.

A wave of dizziness washed over Spike and he braced one hand against the naked ribs of the hull to keep himself from falling forward. His leather duster rustled around him, prodding Buffy to lift her head and whimper weakly. Her unbearably pale face contrasted with her shockingly green eyes. Her very human eyes in the wake of the mystical mistiness they exuded before.

"Help me," she pleaded with a pitiful, shaking breath. He could tell by the painful haze of her eyes that she didn't register his identity, only potential aide.

He glanced around the wreckage, noting the shifted streams of sunlight. He hadn't been unconscious for long, and would be trapped for several more hours with a Slayer with a wicked personality disorder. He had no problem ignoring the uberbitch. He wanted to put as much distance between them as possible. The problem was ignoring Buffy-a scared, wounded girl who was begging him to help her.

It would be kinder to kill her. Who knew how long it would take for her die, especially with her slayer healing fighting to repair her wounds? Wounds that would never heal while she was strung up and bleeding out like a side of beef.

He didn't dare approach her and try to drain her again. He had no doubt the uberbitch would put in an appearance and rip his spine out through his throat, despite her grievous injuries. But how could he possibly spend the next few hours waiting for dark to fall while listening to Buffy's pleading? Could he really leave her suspended in endless agony? He was a merciless monster. The idea of leaving someone to die wasn't disturbing or new to him. But this wasn't _someone._ This was _Buffy._ She was a warrior. A fighter. She didn't deserve such an ignoble death.

He cautiously crossed to her. She reached for him, her bloody fingers twisting into his leathers. She blinked her tears away, focusing on his face.

"Spike?" When he didn't reply her fingers tightened on his collar, trying to stop him from retreating. He watched the flickers of confusion, fear, and finally resolution pass over her bloodless features.

"Help me," she whispered again. This time Spike could hear the twist in her words. She no longer hoped for him to save her from death, but to give her respite from a short life filled with agony.

Is that what he wanted? Her, dead? When she was unconscious and dying the idea of finishing her off hadn't disturbed him. He could smell the stench of death on her, and helping her along almost seemed like a mercy. But now she was staring up at him with wide, green eyes filled with complete trust. Not trust that he would save her, but trust that he would follow his nature and release her from her agony. And that, for some inanely insane reason, seriously brassed him off.

"Thought you were a fighter?" he spat. She blinked at him, looking closer to the side of dead than living. Her brow crumbled in confusion, before her eyes flashed with anger. Something stirred inside him-a sense of victory. _That's my Slayer. My beautiful warrioress._

"I am a fighter. Help me off this spike and I'll show you." She set her delicate jaw with determination as she stared him straight in the eye.

"I'll help you." He bracketed her ribcage with his large hands. Despite the fierce power her body held, she was fragile beneath his strong grip. He had to remind himself of how he felt her ferocity crash over him time and again during their numerous conflicts. Glorious and constant like the sea. "But you better keep your inner bitch on a leash."

Her lips were thin and tight and she spat her words between clenched white teeth. "I'm only a bitch when I'm hurt or sick or fighting-or you know, stuck with annoying vampires."

Spike's lips curled into a lecherous leer. "How about shaggin', pet? You a right bitch then?"

"You're an ass-." Her tirade ended in a scream as he abruptly yanked her off the spear of metal while distracted. All her anger drowned beneath a flood of agony that rushed over her. Her flesh released with a sickly wet pop, then she was bleeding and unconscious, cradled against Spike's chest.

 _Well, fuck. Now what?_ Spike stared down at the wounded girl, wondering when he had gone from trying to take her life to trying to preserve it. He was struck with a sinking feeling of inescapable predestination. The knowledge that by this one act of violating his inherent nature he had become responsible for something no vampire should ever be held accountable for.

The life of a slayer was now his to keep.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

ObscureBookWrym is the best! She also doesn't know I dicked around with this after she gave it back. _Shush,_ don't tell her!

 **Awakening**

Chapter Three

Spike laid Buffy out in a shadowed corner and stepped away. Yanking her off the metal bar may have been a mistake. Blood rapidly poured out of the large, ragged hole, and Spike was hard-pressed to hope there was more left inside her.

He dropped his duster on the ground, tearing off his red button-up. He knelt beside her, balling up his shirt and pressing it against her wound. The shirt darkened, and the blood flow eased after a few minutes. He hoped it was from the pressure he was applying and not because she had simply run out of the precious essence.

The scent of her blood assaulted his senses. If he didn't get some distance from her soon he'd end up a spineless puppy when the uberbitch caught him feeding off her again. He backed away, his hand brushing against his leather duster. He picked it up, ready to shrug it on, when a violent shiver rattled the Slayer's small frame.

He looked at his duster, then back to her. He supposed the proper thing to do in this situation would be to cover her with his duster, but he really didn't want to get slayer blood on it. The stench could take years to get out.

She shuddered again, and Spike exhaled a deep, unneeded sigh. He draped his duster over her body, tucking it around her shoulders. If she lived she'd better be soddin' thankful or he'd rip the bitch's throat out. The only other woman besides Dru who came that close to his precious duster was the original owner. It took years to get her scent out, too.

The blood he licked off her face had already worked its magic on his body. His burns had lightened to a mild inflammation and his bones were mostly knitted together, but he was far from healed, and good blood was rapidly going to waste. Keeping one eye on the Slayer, he drained what was left in the corpses he could reach in the shadows.

One man still lived, his pulse weak and thready. With some proper first aid he might make it another day. Spike shrugged. The fresh blood washed out the dead taste in his mouth.

Along with keeping one eye on the slayer with a doozy of a personality disorder, he kept one ear open for the beast that caused all this chaos. He had awakened not long before the Slayer, so he never got a gander at what was in the cage behind them. But he'd heard it clear enough as it wreaked havoc, instigating a plane crash without even the smallest bit of fear of dying.

Nothing worse than a killing machine with an animal brain. Couldn't be reasoned with, couldn't be persuaded. All you could do was kill it or get out of its way. Its heady scent was a discomforting mix of wet wool, rotting vegetation, and animal musk that made Spike gag.

He followed its scent to the cockpit. The reinforced door separating the flight crew from the cargo hold was rent nearly in half, the heavy steel bearing deep, slashing scars. Spike shifted into vamp face, matching his claws to the marks. The width of his hand looked childlike compared to the spread marking the door. Whatever made the scars had paws the size of a werebear's.

He peeked behind the door. The cockpit was torn to shit. The flight crew shredded, the windscreen blown outward. Spike took a step forward, peering over the nose of the plane. No dead nasty, but the gap in the tree line suggested something large was flung out of the plane at maximum velocity. Hopefully, the creature had limped off to find a hole to die in.

Spike nudged the wreckage with the toe of his boot. He found the floor hatch and opened it up. The transponder was undamaged and transmitting. He locked it back up and walked out.

The sun sunk behind the mountains, leaving enough shadows for him to move without the worry of exposure. He ransacked the plane, finding two dozen parachutes, a fully fitted survival pack with a weatherproof sleeping bag, a collapsible cooking pot and soup mug, an empty hydration bladder, flint and striker, fish hooks and line, wire snares, and a compass which he shoved into the front pocket of his jeans. On the bodies of the soldiers he found more blades than he could shake a stick at, but all their rifles had been smashed to bits.

He fitted the sheaths of the two largest Bowies on his belt at the curve of his back, angling them downward so he could draw them in a single slashing motion that would gut his opponent from groin to gullet. He found several flashlights with batteries, ready-made meals, and a couple bottles of water.

"Gotta love soldier boys. Always prepared for the worst," Spike muttered.

He found a decent first aid kit under the remaining bench seat that hadn't been sucked out of the plane when the trees ripped the fuselage open, but didn't know what to do with most of it beyond using the gauze and tape. He knelt beside Buffy, carefully tearing away her shirt around her wounds, trying to leave her modesty as intact as possible. No way did he want to risk an uberbitch outbreak because her virtue was aflutter.

Replacing his wadded-up shirt with thick pads of gauze, he taped the front and back of her wound. When he turned her on her side he saw the slices along her back where the chain link had punctured her. Pink froth welled from a puncture just under the curve of her fourth rib.

He rocked back on his haunches. In the dim light he could see the bluish cast of her lips and the papery thinness of her eyelids. He dragged his long fingers through his hair, clenching them until he could feel the pull on his scalp. He didn't know what to do for her. As an expert at stealing life, he had no idea how to go about caring for it. He released his hair, rubbing the back of his hand roughly over his mouth, before cleaning the cuts on her back, packing the slice to her lung tightly and bandaging the rest.

Satisfied that it was the best he could do, and that her slayer healing would have to do the rest, he resituated her and tucked his duster around her once again. He shoved the first aid kit and the survival pack under the bench seat and jumped out of the wreck onto the half-frozen ground. He inhaled deeply, his lungs filling with the odors of death, fuel, and juniper. Slithering insidiously beneath it all was the musky hint of unhallowed earth and wet wool.

He methodically scouted the perimeter, enlarging his sweep with every pass when he found no evidence of the beast. A mile from the wreckage he found a small glacial lake, the surface so smooth it reflected the moon with the purity of polished silver. To the east was a crevice cut into the mountain, large enough for him to stand and deep enough to keep him from the sun.

The valley was high in the mountain peaks, red fir and Ponderosa pine soared overhead leaving only coarse, hardy vegetation covering the black soil exposed to the sun. Beneath the branches of the evergreens, the frozen ground crunched as he wound his way through the thick, snarling huckleberry oak. The pristine landscape showed no signs that humans had ever passed through its sublimity. Its desolation was perfection, its utter absence of humanity terrifying.

Spike needed to get the fuck out.

He examined the shivery needle of the compass, aligning his body so he faced a westerly direction. He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew if he traveled due west he'd eventually run into coastline, and more than likely civilization well before then. He'd have to travel at night, keeping to the trees, and be on the constant look out for bolt holes as the sunrise neared. That rot about vampires going to ground was just that-rot. Sure he could bury himself in a hole, after taking hours to dig one. Then take hours to dig himself out. He'd dug himself out of his grave once before and he had no desire to repeat the experience again. Ever.

So, yeah, he could make a run for it. Take his chances that he'd find a new place to hole up every day. Or he could wait it out. The soldier boys would be showing up soon to check on their men and clean up the mess. If they lingered after dark, he'd have himself a nice meal and transport out.

Besides, the Slayer wasn't up to traveling and he refused to think about why that even mattered.

As he approached the crash the reek of the beast saturated his senses. Spike's nerve endings went on point as he scanned the clearing for any sign of the creature. The beast had come and gone, but he hadn't left empty handed. The bodies littering the clearing were missing.

Trepidation locked his heart in his throat as he approached the wreck. Blood streaked the plate metal floor-slick, slimy trails leading out of the fuselage.

Spike leapt inside. The knives he'd collected into a pile were gone. The flashlights were smashed, the parachutes shredded. He kicked it all aside, making his way to the corner where he'd left Buffy. His duster was a shadow darker than the rest. He slowly dragged it away.

The breath locked behind his breastbone left his body in a thin hiss. Buffy laid motionless underneath the shroud of leather. Her face pale, her bloodless lips parted as she took small, shallow breaths.

"Right then. Time for new digs."

The survival pack was still tucked next to the first aid kit under the seat. He slung it over his shoulders and took up the kit. He squatted down next to Buffy, wondering how he was going to lift her without hurting her and still hold onto the kit. He settled for wrapping the duster around her body and picking her up bridal style.

The ionized rush of power crackled over his skin, forcing his gameface forward with a sick crunch of cartilage.

Strong fingers wrapped around his throat, and he was one wrong twitch from losing his gift of eloquent speech. He stilled. For the first time in his unlife he was the prey and not the predator. His yellowed eyes dropped to meet ethereal ones glaring up from Buffy's heart-shaped face.

"Your actions confuse us, vampire." The seraph-like voice crashed over him with the muted force of raging thunder.

His legs wobbled and weakened. He fumbled to his knees, the girl still held protectively to his chest even while being possessed by the unspeakable.

"What are your intentions for this vessel?" The intensity of the voice lessened, and Spike gasped in relief. Anger seethed in his core and a muscle in the hollow of his cheek jumped with the sheer force of will needed to contain his rage.

"My intentions are to get the bloody hell out of here before that beastie comes strolling back. 'Less you think you can take it on-then, be my guest."

Her steely fingers tightened around his throat.

"Sarcasm does not amuse us."

"Well, bitchiness doesn't amuse me."

Her fingers dug painfully into his larynx. The only thing he valued more than his ability to talk was the ability to pleasure his woman. He'd rather not lose either.

"Your intentions, vampire."

"Look, you overpowered bitch. I'm not goin' to hurt Buffy." He tried to jerk away, but she held him firmly. "You, on the other hand…" he muttered.

The being wearing Buffy watched him curiously. "Why?"

Spike refused to meet her eerie gaze. He was still on his knees, still cradling her to his chest. The moon was sinking and somewhere in the wilderness was a beast that might not be as blindly dumb as he'd thought.

"Don't ask why, 'cause I don't know myself," he confessed. "Just can't leave her like this. Can't leave her as meat for the beast."

The being peered at him intently. Gradually the crushing pressure pressing on him from all sides receded. His head cleared, his ribs expanded, the small hairs along his spine and arms laid down. He stared hard at the frail, unconscious girl in his arms. Her pale, bloodless skin glowed with faint residual light that dimmed with every passing second.

Spike gave serious consideration to the origin of the Slayer and what it meant that he was still alive.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

So many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm for looking this over.

 **Awakening**

Chapter Four

Spike smoothed out the down sleeping bag on the natural shelf at the back of the cave he found near the glassy lake. Satisfied that the bedding was soft enough, he carefully lifted Buffy onto the makeshift bed.

The bandages wrapped around her torso had soaked though, inciting his bloodlust with every decadent whiff. Clamping down hard on his demon, he quickly changed the wrappings and zipped her into the bag before settling his duster over her. She no longer needed its warmth, but he found himself strangely reluctant to part her from it. It made him feel as if he was leaving a part of himself behind to protect her when he couldn't.

They were safe for the moment, but the aroma of slayer blood was certain to draw predators straight to them. The beast in particular.

Spike gathered up the bandages, and using his preternatural speed, he raced back to the wreckage. Choosing a new direction, he plunged into the twisting bracken, stopping only to smear Buffy's blood on exposed tree trunks and rotting logs.

Spike opened himself up to the night in a way he hadn't done in decades. Years of hunting in urban locales had made a lazy predator, and his instincts weren't as sharp as they should be.

In enclosed spaces sound ricocheted off every surface, but here in the wilderness it carried for miles, making it impossible to pinpoint the source. Human heartbeats were easily distinguishable from dogs, cats, and vermin; they overwhelmed everything else by sheer numbers alone. In the wilderness, heartbeats varied: the small, rapid patter of rodents rustling through the underbrush, the steady thud of mule deer bedded down in the briar, and the hungry stealthy beats of predators slinking through the woods.

Bats swooped in the air, close enough to his head that he ducked out of instinct. An owl screeched, followed by the screaming of a weasel. The sounds were all familiar to the predator who had hunted the night for over a hundred years, but somehow in this open space where humanity was only a nightmare at the edge of existence, Spike felt unsettled.

This wasn't his hunting ground. It belonged to another. A creature more beast than man, too intelligent to be truly considered an animal.

Spike followed his instincts to a sheer cliff edge, peering down at the black, jagged rocks hundreds of feet below. He wedged one of the bloody bandages between two small quartz-veined boulders before tossing the rest into the ravine.

On his way back, he chased down two rabbits. He wasn't hungry after his earlier meal, but he drained them anyway, before slinging their gutted and skinned carcasses over his shoulder.

At the lake he stopped to fill a canteen with fresh water. Across the black lake he could hear the tiny plops of trout leaping out of the water to gobble insects. At the sound of a larger splash, Spike turned his head, stilling as a shaggy black bear waded into the water not thirty feet away.

A soddin' _bear._

Predator silent, Spike backed away from the water's edge, melding into the shadows at the tree line. Bloody hell, as soon as he was back amongst civilization, he'd head to the biggest metropolis he could find. New York or London, it didn't matter, as long as it was as far away from the wilderness as he could get.

The moon was hidden behind the black, looming mountains by the time he neared the cave. A twinge of anxiety made him uncomfortable. There wasn't a reason to feel any level of concern for his enemy. Just as there wasn't a reason to care for her wounds.

Regardless of those facts, he breathed a sigh of relief when he found her undisturbed and resting where he'd left her.

The scent of her delicious blood saturated the air, tempting him to forget about the uberbitch currently residing in the Slayer's skin and lose himself in the ecstasy of Buffy's taste. Something he couldn't rightly do without losing his testicles.

The uberbitch was another quandary all together. What was she? Why was she just now making her presence known? Had the Slayer always been the victim of a wicked personality disorder, and he'd just never witnessed it?

He dropped the rabbits in the corner, settling himself at the cave entrance to watch the shifting shadows beneath the pines.

Over the years, he'd heard rumors of what made a slayer, a nasty joke shared among the wicked of the underworld. The pure, pristine Slayer running on evil juice – no sugar and spice or anything nice, but foul and nasty, made of the very filth she professed to hate. It made the demons hate her even more for being a hypocrite.

But what Spike saw - what he thought he saw - it was as opposite of demonic as you could get. No demon there. It was power. Power beyond that of evil.

And that…just wasn't possible.

For Spike, power meant corruption - the filth polluting the stream, the poison beneath the purity. Whatever _She_ was, it wasn't corruption. It was pure, uncut, unadulterated good. If anything, Buffy was the corruption. Humanity diluting the pure.

Spike didn't like that idea one bit. Buffy wasn't filth. She wasn't corruption. Her humanity made her strong, made her the best slayer he'd ever seen. It kept her alive. As far as the vampire was concerned, what kept you alive wasn't wrong. Wasn't evil. It was survival.

A sickening sense of intuition flickered along Spike's insides. The Slayer - Buffy - wasn't merely enhanced with power stolen long ago before memory. The uberbitch _was_ Buffy, the very essence of her. The inner core. Walled off and separate, guarded by barriers, but still there. Still powering the ship. Like the warp core on the bleedin' _USS Enterprise._

Buffy coughed. The harsh, wet sound loud in the absolute stillness of the predawn. Spike picked up the canteen, unscrewing the cap as he approached. Her eyes opened, unfocused until they snapped to him.

"Spike?" Her breathless voice wavered.

"Yeah, Slayer."

"You killed me?"

It pained him when his lip curled into a small smile. For being his absolute worst enemy, she was bloody adorable sometimes. "Not yet, luv. Seems you're too stubborn to go softly into that good night."

"My mom always said I could out-stubborn a mule." She fell back with a stifled scream when she tried to lever herself up onto her elbows. A fresh waft of blood hit Spike, tantalizing his demon.

"Don't move," he ordered tersely, moving closer in case she disobeyed. Her whimpered response ended in a cough.

"Water?"

She nodded, too weak to take the canteen. He cupped the back of her head, feeling the oily sweat at the nape of her neck, and lifted her as minimally as possible. She drank greedily, her bruised eyes trained curiously on his impassive face. When she'd had her fill, he laid her back, settling his duster around her shoulders.

"Where are we?"

"In a cave."

Her pale face crumpled. "Did you kidnap me?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Slayer?"

Her eyes drifted to the side in thought. He was fascinated by the play of her small, white teeth rubbing over her bottom lip. She'd make a magnificent vampire - fierce and passionate - she'd be a creature grounded in the moment, unlike his fey princess who swayed to music only she heard, always leaving him out of the dance.

"I was at a party with Parker."

"He stank of vulnerability and _many_ other women."

She frowned at him. "We fought."

"Anything else?"

"We were…on a plane?"

Spike nodded. "Some soldier boys got the drop on us."

"There were soldiers?"

"Yep. They strung us up good and proper."

Her face paled as they spoke, the hair around her temples darkening with perspiration. Her shallow breathing took on weight, rattling in her chest.

"You should rest, luv."

"We crashed," she said suddenly, almost fiercely. Her green eyes locked onto him. "Why am I still alive, Spike?"

"Like I said, you won't go quietly, tough, stubborn bint."

Her eyes hardened to sharp-cut emeralds. "Why haven't you killed me?"

"Well, that's gratitude for you. I patch you up. Get you all cozy and—"

"So that's it? You're hiding me from rescuers so you can torture me before you kill me?"

"Hadn't occurred to me, but if that's what gets you off, then let it be said I know how to oblige a lady." Spike rocked back on his heels with a leer, his thumbs hooked into his belt.

"I do not get off—"

"Liar," he cut her off, his tone slick with menace and a dirty kind of knowing. "You're Angelus' girl after all, and he likes a whole lot of pain with his pleasure. Or maybe not. He did say you weren't worth a second go."

She lunged at him, only to spasm in pain. Her mouth wrenched open into a silent scream, the long lines of her throat convulsing.

He hurried to her side, uncapping the canteen.

"Drink," he urged when her fit passed. She accepted his help reluctantly. Some water dribbled around the lip of the bottle, sliding down her throat. When she was done, her body went slack with exhaustion.

"Get some rest, Slayer. We'll pick this up when you're better. It's no fun when you can't be your normal bitchy self."

Something shifted in her eyes, and he fought the urge to slink away and hide in the darkest shadow he could find.

"Spike, if you're not going to hurt me, then why'd you bring us to this cave?"

He debated telling her about the beast in the woods, but one look at her pale, sweaty face dissuaded him. Unnerved by his response to her, nearly overpowered by her scent, he resumed his crouch by the narrowed entrance of the cave. His restless gaze flittered from the shadows to the pale outline of the mountains. Sunrise would soon be upon them and they'd be trapped. If the beast sought them out, they'd have to make their stand in the cave, and their refuge may very well become their crypt.

"Those soldier boys were up to no good. They weren't squirin' us on a dream vacation, Slayer. I thought it best not to be around when they came a-callin'."

"But we need them, don't we?"

"Not disagreein'. We're in the arse-crack of nowhere. They'll probably come by 'copter and hopefully it'll be after dark afore they leave."

"And if it is?"

He knew the grin he gave her was pure wickedness by the way she shifted nervously under the weight of his duster.

"Then I'll commandeer their transport."

"You can fly a helicopter?"

"I've had a few lessons over the years."

"A few?"

He shifted sheepishly. "Dru kept eatin' the instructors, but I'm sure something stuck."

"I'm reassured," she responded dryly.

"Well, I can always leave you here to die." He expected a witty retort, but when he turned to look she had sunken into unconsciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Thanks so much to ObscureBookWyrm for looking this over. I also got a bit of medical advice from Sunalso, who's just awesome.

 **Awakening**

Chapter Five

The sun rose high in the sky, yet Spike paced the confines of the cave, unable to sleep. All his instincts tingled. A beast prowled the woods, stalking them, and Spike didn't know its patterns, how it thought, when it slept, or when it hunted. The lack of knowledge left him extremely vulnerable. He didn't like it one bit.

A small fire flickered near Buffy, who lay on the shelf in a coma-like slumber. Centered in the campfire was the collapsible cooking pot atop a flat rock, an aromatic rabbit stew bubbling away. It would take hours for the rabbit to be tender enough for Buffy to eat, even cut into small chunks. The sound of her breathing, still labored and ragged after far too many hours of rest, warned him that at most she would only be able to sip the broth.

The entrance to the cave angled toward a southern exposure, leaving Spike safe, but trapped. From the granite overhang Spike could see the dappled shadows beneath narrow needle-fringed branches of the red fir and Jeffery pine. Tiny creatures scurried in the underbrush, going about their business of storing food for the fast-approaching winter snows, shying away from the cave and the predator within.

Spike tracked nearby heartbeats, noting that nothing larger than a doe bedded down by the lake. The knowledge both relieved and unnerved Spike, who was certain that the beast was much larger than a deer.

Subconsciously, Spike tuned into the unsteady thump of Buffy's heart, muscles tightening at every faltering beat of distress. It pumped harder than normal, desperate to push healing blood to her seeping injuries. Even now, twenty-four hours later, her wounds smelled fresh, if not a little putrid. Buffy's lauded slayer healing was falling down on the job, and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

When the _whomp whomp_ of helicopter blades sliced through the air it took Spike a moment to register the sound, so in tune was he with Buffy's heartbeat. Right on time. It may have been predictable, but the US Armed Forces never left a man behind.

He couldn't wait to get his fangs into them, to get answers to his questions: who were they and what did they want with Buffy and him?

Spike hustled to the fire, removing the pot and stomping out the flames so as not to reveal their location to the soldier boys. Returning to the entrance, he slid into gameface, enhancing his senses to track their movements by scent and sound. As far as he could figure, a total of eight men disembarked from two Black Hawks, leaving two pilots and two co-pilots behind.

The force wasn't too large for him to overcome, but it wouldn't be easy either. If he didn't want to be drilled full of holes, it would be best to forgo a direct attack and engage in guerilla tactics once the sun went down.

So long as his hand wasn't forced. As he listened, they split into two-man sweep teams, one of which headed straight for him. Spike felt like a nit. He hadn't foreseen what he'd do if they found him in the full light of day.

Perhaps the situation wasn't as dire as it seemed. It may even be a boon. With his vampiric abilities, he could easily melt into the shadows of the cave, perhaps even find himself a crevice in the ceiling. People rarely looked up even while searching their surroundings.

Once they found Buffy, she would receive the first aid she needed and be carried to the transport. Although the idea of people putting their hands on Buffy while she was too weak to defend herself didn't set well with him. Worse was the sudden thought that they might put her on the helo and whisk her away before the sun set. He'd never see her again if that happened.

The two-man sweep team neared their position, yelling call signs to search for their men. Spike wondered at their stupidity. The blood painting the downed plane and the absence of corpses should have tipped them off that something bad lurked in the woods, but these men weren't hunters with predator instincts like Spike. They were men playing at being hunters while being hunted themselves.

And like a predator, Spike went on point, hackles rising when he scented unhallowed earth.

Screams ripped through the tranquility, startling birds and other animal life out of their dens. Shouted orders called the other teams to converge on their distressed comrades. Shouts devolved into screams and the rapid _rat-a-tat-tat_ of frantic gunfire.

Spike's acute hearing made out the gush and splatter of blood spewing onto frozen ground, could scent the warmth and wet of it in the cold air. Beneath that was the unholy damp musk of the beast, its bovine cough echoing the cries of the soldiers.

Was the beast capitalizing on a free meal or was did it view Spike and Buffy as part of its larder that it needed to protect?

Too soon the screaming and gunfire rattled to a stop, and silence echoed in the woods. The lack of birdsong or hum of insects - just utter, impenetrable silence - told Spike the beast was near.

Spike tensed, unnaturally still in the shadows of the overhang as he watched the edges of the woods. A breeze ruffled the top fringe of pine needles; the undergrowth remained still.

A shadow moved in the woods. Tall, thin, swaying in sync with the windblown trees. Spike narrowed his eyes. His eyesight wasn't the best in the daytime, his eyes more accustomed to seeing acutely in the dark.

A blue jay chattered, griping its irritation, and Spike could feel the rest of the woods fall back into its natural rhythms.

Spike glanced over his shoulder, yellow eyes meeting the ethereal gaze of the Slayer, the moment breathless between them as neither supernatural creature moved.

"Not me you need to worry about," Spike murmured, almost afraid to break the heightened tension.

The uberbitch didn't respond, and eventually Spike turned back to keep his vigil.

When night fell, Buffy slept, and Spike crept from their shelter. He easily found the site of the massacre, the blood still wet and rank on the hard ground and splattered like crimson holly on the dark green huckleberry leaves. No bodies were tucked into the brush. Nor was there any sign of the beast. No prints, no drag marks. Not even blood from a bullet wound.

On the unevenly textured bark of a pine tree, blood was smeared in an unnatural way. Spike hunkered down, taking a closer look. A downward triangular shape, two crescents sprouting from the top. It looked like a child's rendering of a cow face or maybe a goat.

Shuddering, Spike quickly made his way to the crash site. He approached cautiously, sniffing the air heavy with the musk of the beast.

Spike lost hope as soon as he saw the wreckage. The electronic guts of the Black Hawks were torn out, one, five ton helo, tipped on its side, the blade of the rotor dug deeply into the black earth. Communications were trashed; Spike couldn't even call up static.

Pitching the headset away in disgust, he scrounged for any handheld radios and found only a map of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range, a red circle noting their location along with the coordinates of their crash site.

With the map he could find his way off the mountain, instead of wandering blindly. By his reckoning they were a night's walk from a fire service road; from there it would take him another half a night to connect with State Route 4. After that it would be no problem to hitch a ride, get a warm meal and a new car.

He folded the map, tucking it in his waistband at the small of his back. An hour had lapsed since he left Buffy. He hurried back, stopping only to fill the canteen with fresh water from the lake.

The scent of death struck him hard only because he wasn't expecting it at his shelter. Ten feet in the air, in the branches of the junipers next to the cave entrance, two bodies hung, limbs gnawed off, gutted of all their organs.

Hardened as he was, Spike was taken aback for a moment. He rocked on his heels, strangely reluctant to walk beneath them and into the cave.

Their mouths were wrenched open in silent screams, or maybe in frantic, unvoiced warning. Inside their mouths were frosted blue lumps. At first Spike thought it was their swollen tongues, but as he drew closer he realized they were stuffed with juniper berries.

"Fuck me," he muttered, casting quick glances around, searching for any hint of the beast.

The blind eyes of the soldiers watched him as he carefully approached, searching the ground for tracks. There was nothing. Not even scuffed bark on the trees from where the beast must have climbed to hang its kill.

Moonlight didn't reach the depths of the cave, leaving it a dark, yawning maw in the quartz-speckled granite. He stood in the entrance, head cocked as he listened. He couldn't explain the relief he felt when he heard Buffy's rattling breaths, nor his skin-tingling fear when he thought he might not find her waiting.

Hearing no other sounds, he entered the cave and quickly lit the fire with his lighter. No use keeping it doused. The beast knew where they were. It was playing with Spike. Baiting him. One predator teasing another.

Except while the beast had no discernible weakness, Spike had a very blatant one. She lay not five feet away upon the rock shelf. As long as he stayed to protect her, he'd be vulnerable. Easy prey.

Spike inhaled deeply, scenting wood smoke and vanilla. The beast hadn't breached their shelter. Hadn't slunk in and put its claws on Spike's prize. He growled deep in his chest, only biology winning out against the primal urge to whip out his dick and piss in the corners of his home, even on Buffy herself.

Sweat darkened Buffy's hair, her cheeks still pale with blood loss. Needing to touch her, he disguised his unnatural urges by changing her blood-soaked bandages instead.

She wasn't healing.

Certainly she was dying.

He should leave. Save his own skin. Buffy wasn't Dru. Not his ladylove to live and die for. She was the slayer. His enemy. If she were well, she wouldn't hesitate to stick a stake through his heart.

She was the One. His only natural-born predator. His destined killer.

The One.

The _One._

The thought echoed continuously in his head, seemingly taking on other connotations that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

He brushed his hand through her damp hair, expecting some sign she sensed him – a moan, a fluttering of her lashes – but only death showed on her slack, waxy face.

Throwing her old bandages into the fire, he wiped his hands on his trousers. Realizing what he'd done he raised his hands, palms up to look at them. Faint traces of her blood seeped into the lines of his hands, soaking into him as if his entire being craved her, right down to his very pores.

Why hadn't he been tempted by her scent? By her blood? Sure he was still full from gorging the day before, but her blood should have been an irresistible temptation. Disgusting as it may be, he should have been sucking on her bandages like they were rock candy. Yet it hadn't even occurred to him.

Choking down his self-disgust, he placed the stew back on the rock to reheat and returned to his vigil at the entrance. Exhaustion weighed him down, tempting him to lie next to the fire and rest, but Spike couldn't draw his eyes away from the shadows swaying under the pine trees. Part of him watched; the other part plotted a path to freedom.

The stew was boiling when Spike felt the air charge with predestination, the sensation familiar but no less awe-inspiring. He refused to turn to look at her, just as he fought the urge to kneel, an urge that was easier to fight each time she appeared.

"If you leave, this vessel will cease to be."

Spike shrugged, not wanting to admit his thoughts on abandoning Buffy. Instead he concentrated on his own survival. "Might not be able to go to ground before daybreak."

"You are old and resourceful."

"Maybe."

It would be easy to leave Buffy behind. Leave her to be meat for the beast. One day, maybe two he'd have to go to ground, but it wouldn't take him long to make his way back to civilization, to where he belonged, not this nightmare of sticks, and thorns, and beasts too smart for men.

The Slayer began to chant, a rhythm in an ancient, foreign tongue that was somehow familiar to him. He was certain it wasn't a language he knew, neither human nor demon, yet the words emblazoned themselves into his mind, searing themselves there, so they could never be forgotten.

When the words died away, Spike turned around, but it was only Buffy staring back at him.

"Spike?"

"Back in the realm of the living, are you, luv?"

She licked her chapped lips, her eyes slightly unfocused.

"What smells so good?"

Instead of answering her, he moved to fill the soup cup he'd recovered from the survival pack with brothy stew. He set the cup aside as he tried to sit her up.

"I can't," she gasped, her breath hot against Spike's face. "It hurts."

Spike couldn't tell if she was warmer than normal beneath his hands. He wasn't sure, but he thought so.

"Here." He brought the cup to her lips, holding her head so she could sip. She took barely a swallow before she tilted her face away.

"It's good. What is it?" The slayer lying to be polite; what a novelty.

"Rabbit. And if it's so good, you won't mind takin' another swallow."

She grimaced, doing as he asked. He was able to get a quarter cup down her gullet before she collapsed in exhaustion.

"Did they come?"

Spike busied himself by pouring the uneaten stew back in the pot, unable to look at her pale, brave, frightened face. She knew she wasn't healing. They both knew it.

"Not yet," he lied. He couldn't understand why he wanted to protect her from the truth, only that she didn't need to be more frightened than she already was. Or worse, feel like she had to fight her way to her feet so she could defend her precious humans from the beast hunting them.

The choking sound coming from the rock shelf had him dropping the mug into the fire and darting to her side. In her sleeping bag, Buffy convulsed, yellowish bile streaming from the corner of her mouth. Spike grabbed her by the arm, ignoring her pained yelp as he maneuvered onto her side so her head hung over the edge of the shelf. Vomit splattered the ground and over his black boots. The acidic stench was abominable.

He held her hair as her entire body shook and shuddered until she was empty. When she was done, she tried to roll onto her back, but Spike positioned her on her side instead. The way she had choked while on her back had terrified centuries of unlife out of him.

Vomiting wasn't something vampires did. Wasn't something he'd truly been up close and personal with since his human years.

Bugger that.

He smoothed her hair back into place, noticing the warmth of her brow. Her breathing was ragged, her little heart thumping along in her chest like a jack rabbit. Uncertain, and a little repulsed, he backed away.

"Thanks, Spike. I'm glad it's you with me." Her words were barely a whisper of sound, but they carried to where he stood at the entrance.

Stunned, he whipped around to look at her, but she was unconscious again, her breathing shallow.

Unable to bear being in her presence a moment longer, he walked out of the cave, only to be bombarded by the scent of death. Growling low in his throat, he climbed the trees, tearing down the bodies and dragging them far away where they wouldn't attract more predators. Not that he needed to worry about something as mundane as a mountain lion when something far worse knew where they bedded down.

After burying the last body under several seasons of dead pine needles and rot, he stared up at the bright moon hanging low in the sky. This high up, the moon was impossibly large, almost like he could reach up and pull it down if only he could leap high enough.

He wouldn't leave her.

He didn't understand why. Maybe it was his caretaker complex. He'd always been a sucker for ailing women. Buffy needed him, and deep down, Spike needed to be needed.

He closed his eyes, opening senses that had never been used. Not his predator senses, those that allowed him to suss out his environment, but his supernatural ones. Ones gifted to him by his bloodline.

He concentrated on his hated grandsire, opening pathways that had resolutely remained closed even in Spike's direst moments. Pride had stopped him in the past. But pride wasn't a deterrent now, because this wasn't a situation he could fight or scheme his way out of.

Not while Buffy's life remained in the balance.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Many thanks to ObscureBookWyrm. With her I always learn something new.

Thank you to everyone who has been so supportive. Your reviews and likes are truly awesome.

 **Awakening**

Chapter Six

"She's nowhere. I've checked all the hospitals and sheriff offices for the entire state!" Willow's voice hit a crescendo of panic at the last word. Buffy was gone. Wiped off the face of the earth. All of Willow's location spells were fritzing out, which either meant Buffy was way out of range or she was _dead._ Oh, God. Dead. Broken in some crypt somewhere. An evening snack for nasties. Her beautiful, vibrant, powerful friend a corpse.

Willow swayed, biting hard on her lower lip to hold back the tears.

"Willy's got nothin'. All he said was that demons have been disappearing off the streets for the last three months. Same dudes that Buffy described the other night. Willy swears they aren't demons."

"And you believe him?" Giles snapped.

"Yeah. I made sure." Xander rubbed his bruised knuckles.

"Willow, have you found anything online about these disappearances?"

"I've logged into some local demon chat rooms. I'm getting the same thing as Xander. Dressed in black, heavy fire power. Human."

"Anything else?" Giles rubbed his strained, red-rimmed eyes. It had been days since Buffy went missing, since he got more than an hour or two of sleep.

Willow licked her much abused lower lip. "I've found one unconfirmed rumor, but it seems a little farfetched, I mean…"

"What, Will?" Xander bounced in place. About twelve hours back he'd switched from black coffee to double espresso shots.

"Some are saying they're military."

Giles snapped straight. "U.S. military?"

Willow shrugged. Giles put his glasses on and reached for the phone.

"Who you calling, G-man?"

"The Watcher's Council. If there is, indeed, a military force operating out of Sunnydale they'd know about it."

"And if they have Buffy?" Willow asked, her hands clasped over her heart, her face pale and hopeful.

"I imagine they'll be persuaded quite forcefully to return her."

Xander and Willow glanced at each other, shivering at Giles' murderous tone.

"Never thought I'd say this, but go Watcher's Council." Xander pumped his fist in the air. Willow nodded so enthusiastically that the pencil she'd shoved in her hair to hold it out of her face while she worked plopped out and rolled on the floor. She scrambled after it before it could roll under the couch.

Giles strode out of the room, handset already poised next to his ear, while Willow settled back at her laptop.

"Cocoa covered espresso bean," Willow offered Xander.

"Nah uh. I think my heart's gonna pop out of my chest like an alien baby any second now."

"Not good." Willow popped another bean in her mouth.

"Nope." Xander stepped closer to Willow, watching over her shoulder as she logged into another chat room. They read several threads, many of which were 'Missing' boards. Demons looking for their loved ones who had disappeared suddenly. Those made Willow's soft heart ache a little. A couple were conspiracy boards, claiming that aliens were stealing demons out of scientific curiosity, citing a dump site of dissected demon bodies near the college campus as proof. A site that no longer existed. One claimed that the U.S. military was continuing paranormal studies started in WWII by the Nazis, a super-soldier program.

Bupkis, most of it.

Suddenly there was a loud, frantic pounding at the door. Xander jumped three feet and Willow lost half her espresso beans onto the floor.

"Giles, open up."

"Great. The undead have arrived. Quick, board up the doors and windows!" Xander snarked.

"What is that racket?" Giles entered the room, still holding the handset. The Watcher's Council knew about the special ops military program called the Initiative working out of Sunnydale, their contacts at the Pentagon having kept them appraised. However, they knew nothing of Buffy's disappearance, having only taken a cursory interest in the facility. It would take a day or so, but if the so-called Initiative had taken Buffy, then the Council would turn their full and undivided interest onto the operation. As an active Slayer on the Hellmouth, whether she acknowledged her ties to the Council or not, she was granted certain privileges. One of which was the Council's political clout.

Giles only took minimal comfort in the knowledge. By urging the Council to turn its eyes to Sunnydale, it invited them to renew their less than positive interest in Buffy.

"Angel's here," offered Willow.

"Giles!" More pounding.

Giles crossed to the door, pausing to pick up the crossbow he kept in his umbrella stand. He opened the door, crossbow aimed at Angel's heart.

The frantic vampire didn't notice the threat; hair ungelled and clothes askew, it was clear that he'd rushed from L.A. in a hurry.

"Spike has Buffy!"

"What?" Xander gasped.

"How do you know?" The slight tremors in Giles' hands before he steadied them were the only outwards signs of his shock.

"He sent me a sire call."

"A what?" Willow's brow furrowed.

"Let me in and I'll explain it."

"Explain it now," Giles ordered coldly, reaffirming the crossbow's aim on Angel's heart.

Angel ran his hand through his short hair, once, twice, visibly swallowing down his concern. "It's a way for childer to contact their sire if they're separated."

"So, like, to track them? Like a locator spell?" Willow tried to reason out.

"It's similar."

"Why didn't you do that when Spike first came to Sunnydale? Our lives would've been a heck of a lot easier if you had led Buffy to his and Drusilla's hideout to dust them," Xander sneered.

"I couldn't. Spike has _never,_ not in a hundred and twenty years, sent a sire call."

"Why should that make a difference?" asked Giles. Hard blue eyes studied Angel, memorizing information to write down later.

"A link has to be opened. Now that it has, I can track him. Down to the centimeter," Angel growled.

"How do you know he has Buffy?" Willow drew closer to Giles, peering anxiously over his shoulder.

"Images can be sent. Mental snapshots." Angel's dark eyes drilled into Giles. "He showed me Buffy. She's hurt."

Giles' crossbow sagged. The tears Willow held back coursed down her cheeks. In the den, Xander sunk into the couch, his head braced between his hands.

Spike having Buffy was the worst possible outcome their imaginations could have conjured. Being at the mercy of an unrepentant killer, Buffy's chances for survival were slim if she was injured and unable to fight back.

"Come in, Angel." Giles moved aside, allowing Angel entrance into his flat.

"So, what? He's taunting you?" Xander wiped his face, looking towards Angel.

"He's calling me out. He's taken the thing I love. Rubbing my face in it."

"She's not a thing," Giles murmured, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. No one heard him over the clatter of glass.

"So you can track him, right?" Xander shot up from the touch and began to pace.

"Yes. But it's just a feeling. An intuition. Like playing hot and hotter. And right now, it's just a tingle far in the distance. That's why images can be sent. To help Sires find their childer faster."

"Did he send any other images?" Giles down his drink.

"Just some numbers. I don't know what they mean." He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket. Willow snatched it out of his hand, hurrying to her laptop.

"Anything else?" Giles asked.

"It's pretty jumbled. Woods, a lake, a cave. Buffy and the numbers were clearest. Spike's never been good at basic vamp stuff. He can't even thrall," Angel sneered.

"Can you?" Xander asked, fingering the stake hidden in his pocket.

Angel shrugged, not bothering to glance at the boy. Instead his worried gaze was riveted on Willow as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

Giles watched, eyes narrowed. "Drink?"

Angel shook his head, lost in his own tortured thoughts, unaware of the growing tension.

"It's coordinates!" Willow exclaimed, her voice pitched high. "Longitude and latitude."

"Where?" Giles peered over Willow's shoulder, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as Angel crowded him.

"Here." Willow leaned back in her chair as the map popped up. "This doesn't make sense. It's in the middle of the Sierra Nevada mountain range."

"No, it does. One of the images Spike sent was of a lake and mountains." Angel pointed to a small blue splotch on the map. A lake so tiny it didn't have a name. Leastways, not on the map Willow pulled up.

"The closest road is for fire access and it's miles away," Giles noted.

"Wow. They're way on the eastern side of the range. According this map, they're darn near 7,000 feet up." Xander cocked his head so he could read the map legend.

"Is that bad?" Willow squeaked.

"Well, it's not good. That's high and even though it's only October it's pretty freakin' cold up there. Like gettin' ready to snow cold." Xander shook his head. "Why would Spike take Buffy way out there?"

"To limit resources?" Giles rubbed his chin. "You'd have to hike in there, leaving you vulnerable once the sun rises."

"You sure he's there?" Willow chewed her lip, zooming in on the coordinates. It was so desolate. Just below the subalpine zone.

"There's no way to know until I start moving in that direction. The link will become stronger the closer I am to him."

"How'd they even get out there? I can't see Spike dragging Buffy out there on foot, injured or not."

At Willow's comment everyone stared blankly at the screen.

"ATVs!" Xander shoved his finger towards the sky in a 'aha' gesture. When no one responded he frowned. "You know, four-wheelers? My dad and Uncle Dale use them all the time to go deer hunting."

Giles folded his arms, brow creased with thought. "Your father has these ATVs?"

Xander nodded. "Two of 'em. Along with a trailer and a four-wheel drive SUV, which you're gonna need to get up that fire road."

"What are we waiting for?" Angel rumbled. "Let's go."

"No need to go off half-cocked. We need supplies first." Giles calculated the travel time and the supplies they would need. Even if the ATVs could travel fast enough to get to the site and back to the SUV before daybreak, it would still be wise to carry camping supplies just in case they became stuck. Spending an evening in the Sierra Nevadas this late in the season without proper protection could very well kill a human.

Angel shoved his finger into Giles chest, growling, "She could be dying. We don't have time to waste."

Giles flinched, worried for his charge. "We need medical supplies for Buffy. Food, water, and camping gear if Buffy can't be moved right away. Tell me Angel, do you have enough blood on hand for the trip? I don't fancy becoming your roadside snack."

Angel backed away, dropping his eyes.

"Right," Giles continued. "Why don't you go buy some for the road? Meet us at Xander's. Xander, go ahead and ready the vehicles."

"Can do, G-man. I've got camping gear too. Ready-fitted for the backs of the ATVs." The boy shifted his weight.

"What is it?"

"With gear, those vehicles only fit one person."

"That's why only Angel and I are going." Giles braced himself.

Predictably, Willow and Xander protested loudly, citing multiple reasons why they should accompany the two older men. Giles held up his hand for silence, waiting patiently for them to die down.

"There won't be room for all of us on the ATVs when we pick up Buffy. Or in the SUV if she's too injured to sit and has to recline in the back seat."

"But—" Willow protested.

"There is no time. The longer we argue, the more dangerous the situation becomes for Buffy. Now, Willow, I need you to grab the medical grade first aid kit from my bedroom while I pack weapons. Angel, Xander, you need to get going."

Everyone nodded, Willow and Xander unhappily, Angel grimly – but no one hesitated to do their parts. Buffy's life depended upon them.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Many thanks to Sunalso who gave me medical advice in regards to medication and administration. She was extremely helpful. Any errors are due to my faulty imagination.

Also to ObscureBookWyrm, the best beta ever!

 **Awakening**

Chapter Seven

It was nearly noon before he realized something was wrong.

Spike had finally drifted off, two days without sleep and extreme tension taking its toll. Typically, once asleep a herd of elephants couldn't wake him, the stillness of his slumber a profound difference from his usual manic exuberance while awake.

But Spike was also a survivor. A hundred and twenty years of unliving didn't lend itself to stupidity, especially while being the sole caretaker of an insane woman who rarely showed an instinct for survival, only for chaos.

He dozed more than slept, a half-waking slumber that allowed his senses to be on alert for any disturbance. Oddly enough, it wasn't the whimpers that alerted him, but the change in temperature in the cave. A human wouldn't detect the subtle increase, but to a cold, lifeless thing heat signified life, drawing the predator instincts inside him up tight, and made his fangs peek from his gums.

The night had been cold, and although Buffy was nestled in the down sleeping bag, Spike had made sure to keep the fire stoked. The survival of humans wasn't something Spike knew much about, but he did know that the temperature drop at night was enough to kill a man from exposure. He hadn't pulled Buffy off that rebar, patched her wounds, and removed her to the relative safety of the cave only to have her freeze to death.

By midmorning he'd let the fire lapse as he drowsed, the cave's temperature remaining temperate as long as the sun shone overhead. Normally, Spike might not have even noticed the slight degree shift, but his nerves being what they were, he sprung into consciousness fully aware, honing in on Buffy, who'd only just begun to shift beneath the heavy weight of the sleeping bag.

He grabbed the canteen and walked toward her, running into a wall of heat Buffy was radiating like a bloody furnace. Bright flags of fever burned on her cheeks, and her usually pink lips were pale and chapped. Her dry skin stretched papery thin over her bones, eyes sunken into dark hollows, making her look more dead than alive.

He smoothed his hand over her dry brow, wincing at how hot she felt in contrast to his coolness. Her eyes opened, a deep, glassy green shot through with red with wide-blown pupils that looked right through him.

"Mom?"

"Slayer? You with me?"

"I'm not feelin' so hot," Buffy slurred. "Can I have some chicken and stars?"

Spike glanced at the dying embers in the fire pit and the pot of congealed rabbit stew. "How about some nice cool water, luv?"

She hummed in the back of her throat and Spike took that as agreement. Gently, he lifted her head, dribbling a little water in her slack mouth. She grimaced when she swallowed, feebly fighting him off when he tried to offer more.

Suddenly, her vacant gaze fixed itself on him with haunting intensity. She twisted her fist in his shirt, stretching the cotton taut across his shoulders, pulling him closer. Two lines of concentration creased between her brows, her mouth drawn in a firm line. He recognized the look. It was her 'I'm gonna slay' look and he'd been a recipient of it more than once.

He wrapped his larger hand around her fist, ready to jerk away if she attacked.

"You shouldn't be here, Mom. The _der Kindestod_ is hunting," Buffy told him, reciting the name with a perfect German accent that Spike found more than disconcerting. He didn't know the Slayer that well, but from what he observed, she was the epitome of the 'dumb blonde'. Her being able to pronounce anything in German surprised him.

She pulled him closer, curling upwards off the bed, bringing a waft of putrid stench from the wounds on her back. The movement should have been agonizing, but the Slayer barely flinched.

"It killed Celia. Don't worry, Mom. I'll kill it," the Slayer growled, and Spike swallowed. Hard.

"Alright, luv. How about we get you fixed up, and we'll go a-huntin' when you're better?"

Spike needed to get a good look at her wounds. If his nose was anything to go by, they were infected. He didn't know what to do other than clean them and change the dressings. Human wounds confounded him. If left to fester didn't the flesh start to die? Did it need to be cut away? Gangrene would kill her; that he knew for sure, had seen enough of that in the trenches of Somme.

Buffy started to relax, and Spike tried to angle her to the side to check her bandages. Just when he thought she'd passed into an exhausted stupor, she snapped up, wrapping her hot hand around the nape of his neck and pressing her brow to his.

"I'll protect you. You know that, right? I protect the world. It's my duty. You believe me, don't you?"

"Sure, Slayer. Badass protector, you are. A hero."

Buffy grimaced. "Please say you believe me, Mom. I'm not crazy. I'm not. Vampires are real. Monsters are real. They really do live under the bed, in the closet, just beneath the mud waiting to crawl out of their graves. I'm not making it up. They're out there. And if I don't fight then they'll get you, Dad, Willow, Xander, and even Giles. They're out there in the dark. Waiting to eat you. Eat us. Eat the world. I have to stop them. You believe me, Mom? Don't you? Don't you?" Buffy's hands gradually curled into the claws the more frantic she became, fisting his shirt and lightly scoring his skin.

A hundred years of loving and caring for a deranged woman had taught Spike how to be whoever she needed during her bouts of delusion. It brought only comfort, and no harm he could see. Later, Dru would sigh dreamily, telling him of the conversations she had with her dead family members, never knowing it was he she had conversed with the entire time.

"Yeah, Buffy. I believe you." Unable to resist he smoothed his hand through her hair, pushing her bangs off her dry, hot brow. "Lay down now and rest."

He pushed her down, afraid of hurting her when she resisted. "I can't rest. I don't get to rest. No rest for the wicked," she giggled.

"I've seen wicked; you're far from it, luv."

Buffy gazed at him, her eyes surprisingly clear. "But I am. I was selfish and I took something for myself and it almost ended the world."

Spike frowned at that, not understanding what she meant. He couldn't ever imagine her doing anything selfish. The heroic bint had an altruistic streak a mile wide. It made her a damned annoying chit.

"I don't get to rest until I die. Do you think I'm going to die, Spike?"

His name from her lips startled him. Dru rarely breached reality when sunken in her delusions, but Spike had never nursed a fevered human before. Was she cognizant or just barely aware enough to recognize him?

"Not on my watch you're not. Though it would be bloody helpful if you'd start healin'."

"Too bad," she mused. "I'm so tired. I'm ready to rest."

Anger surged in Spike's veins, clouding his vision. If she was bloody well going to give up, then why did he bother nursing her in the first place?

"I didn't know you were such a rotten coward, Summers. Givin' it up to Death with barely a fight. The least you could do is go out in a blaze of glory, not to some soddin' illness."

"Shush." She fitted her forefinger over his lips to hush him. He broke off his rant, staring at her like she was some unrecognizable species he'd never encountered before. "I am a coward. I go out and fight every night. Brave little girl marching to her death. But it's not the monsters that scare me. It's me. I'm the monster."

Spike's dark brows drew down into a point. "Now, I know for a fact that ain't the fuckin' truth."

She looked him straight in the eye, her expression unrecognizable. "She's in me."

Ice slithered down his spine and right into his arsehole. He shuddered, trying to draw away, only to find himself leashed to her good and proper by her small, powerful hand.

"Do you believe me? About the monsters? You aren't going to send me to the institution again, are you? I promise to be good. I _promise._ "

"The hell? Institution? Who'd do such a shoddy thing like that?" In his day institutions, places like the famed Bedlam, were hell on earth. Places of atrocity and neglect. Awful places that bred nightmares. Later, after Dru turned him, she introduced him to her near fanatical fascination with their cold, stone walls, their tiny, filthy cells housing the most desperate of human beings. Men, women, and even children.

Places of torture, they were. All in the name of science. It was enough for even him to feel pity.

Buffy didn't reply, and Spike stared down at her unfocused eyes, bereft at losing her again. She was limp in his arms and he laid her back. She didn't move as he turned her on her side and removed her bandages. Her back was a mess of black and purple bruises, yellow-green pus oozing from her wounds. Colorful and disgusting. Spike felt a stab of helplessness at the sight. He could protect her from the men and beasts, but healing was beyond his scope.

He listened to her labored breathing as he re-bandaged her wounds. What good was there in having an uberbitch beneath the skin if the body was dying?

As he started to settle her on her back, he changed his mind, flipping her on her side instead.

He sat beside her, watching her profile. She wasn't relaxed in repose. Her brow crinkled in pain, her teeth worrying her lower lip. Hesitantly, he moved a long tendril of hair from her cheek. It didn't feel right to touch her. Almost like a desecration.

Yanking his hand back, he grabbed up the medical kit, methodically tearing through it to read the small packets of medication. There had to be something to help her, but he couldn't discern what was what. He didn't know the difference between acetaminophen and ibuprofen. In his day, it was headache powders and laudanum. Neither of which were helpful here.

He picked up one packet of Tylenol proclaiming to be a fever reducer and another that said Vicodin for pain. He vaguely recalled a medical breakthrough in the late 1920s with mold spores. Penicillin, he remembered, was an antibiotic. He didn't see anything labeled as such. Dammit, why hadn't he paid closer attention to human ailments and their doctoring?

He knew why. Sickness reminded him too much of his mother, a memory he preferred to remove to the farthest reaches of his mind.

He had discarded several long, rectangular packages wrapped in a waxy kind of medical paper. He thought they were empty syringes, but upon closer inspection they were labeled Cefazolin. Cefazolin and Penicillin shared the same suffix. Did that mean they shared the same medicinal distinction? Did they do the same thing?

He tore open the packet, staring dumbfounded. Inside was a preloaded syringe, filled with a clear fluid. Taped to the side was a 21 gauge needle covered in plastic to keep it sterile. All he had to do was attach the needle to the syringe.

He looked for instructions. Nothing. No directions on what the medication did, where to inject it, or how much to use.

He looked at the liquid in the syringe again. It seemed logical that it would be preloaded with the proper dose, but weren't doses based on body weight and all that bollox?

Sod it. He'd just inject her with everything. Either it killed her or it didn't. Glancing at Buffy's fever-flushed face, he shrugged and loaded the needle. At this point, he was willing to take the chance.

Finished, he pulled up Buffy's sleeve and held up the needle. It was a soddin' big needle, and for a superpowered arse-kicker, the Slayer was a stick-thin little thing. Maybe sticking her in the arm wasn't such a good thing.

Critically, he glanced over her body. The most padding she had was her rounded little bum, but Spike wasn't quite confident the uberbitch wouldn't take offense to being jabbed in the arse. Finally, he settled for sticking her in the thigh through a tear in her jeans. The muscle was large enough he figured, and her virtue remained intact.

When he was finished, he threw the needle into the corner of the cave. Environmental conservationist, he was not.

He picked up the two packets of Tylenol and Vicodin, studying them. Would there be a reaction if he gave them both to her at the same time, in addition to the Cefazolin? In the end, he decided to wait. It would be his luck to kill her due to a drug reaction while trying to save her.

8888

Spike sat with her as her fever raged on, getting worse throughout the day. He thought about bathing her with cool water, but all he had was in the canteen, and she needed it to drink. Only a mile away, the lake filled with snow run-off beckoned. Ice baths had been popular in his day and he was certain it was the ticket to getting her fever down, but it might as well be on the moon for all his ability to reach it while the sun shone. Even if he managed to dodge sunbeams while ducking through the shadows beneath the trees, the lake itself sat directly in the sun. There was nothing for it but to wait until the sun sunk below the cold, forbidding mountains.

"I'm so hot."

"I know, luv. Can feel it rollin' off you. Here, drink." He crushed the Tylenol and Vicodin and added them to the water. He hoped it would be enough until he could get her to the lake. She drank, then pressed the cool canteen to her cheeks, moaning in appreciation.

"Spike, I'm burning up." In a direct contradiction to her words she gave a full body shudder.

Helplessly, he glanced around looking for anything that could help cool her. Scrubbing his face with his hand, he stood up, grabbing the hem of his shirt.

"Don't stake me for this, yeah?"

He heard no reply as he pulled off his shirt. Briefly he thought of taking his trousers off, but thought better of it.

Sliding in next to her, he pulled her up so she lay draped over his chest. She melted over him like paraffin, so bloody hot he thought he might burst into flames.

"That's nice," she sighed.

"Not for long. It'll be nothin' flat afore I'm as scalding as you."

She nuzzled his chest, releasing a little moan that went straight to his cock. Spike went rigid beneath her in shock. He craned his neck to look over Buffy towards his crotch. "None of that now, you wanker. The lady's half out of her head with fever. Even we aren't that depraved," he growled.

"No! Don't! I'm not dead. I'm not! Please don't."

Spike jolted, automatically wrapping his arms around her shoulders, only to jerk away when he came into contact with her wounds. Helpless, he settled for palming the back of her skull, holding her close.

"Shush, I know, luv. You're right here with me. Live and kickin'."

"Don't bury me! I'm alive. I'm right here. Can't you see me? Why can't anyone see me?"

"I see you, Buffy. I got you. No one's going to put you in an early grave. You hear me?"

She looked straight at him and for a moment, Spike thought she saw him, really saw him, but then her eyes became glassy. "I'm not ready yet," she whispered.

"I know. We'll fight, yeah? To the bitter end. We'll make the world bloody before it takes us down."

"I'm not ready. But I will be soon."

"Not soon. Never," Spike swore. A small, furious corner of his mind knew he was being irrational, but the thought of her dying made him howling mad. He'd put so much time and effort into healing her, her dying now would be an insult.

Any other feelings he might have on the matter where just a manifestation of his insanity from being in forced isolation. _Right?_ The plane crash, surviving in the arse-crack of nowhere, being hunted by an unknowable _thing._ He was just suffering from whatsit. PTSD. _Yeah._

Bloody, soddin', buggerin' woods. If he never saw another damned pine tree it would be too soon.

"I'll be ready to do my duty soon."

Spike frowned. "No need for that. Let's get you better, then you can go back to what you do best. Fightin' that glorious fight."

"I'm sorry for everything, Giles. I promise to do my duty. I'll kill him. I know that won't bring back Ms. Calendar. But I'll kill him. I will."

Spike inhaled swiftly. Buffy looked broken. A wretched imitation of herself.

"I never wanted to disappoint you. I know why you let them lock me in that house with Kralik. I failed you. Failed my calling. I loved a demon and it nearly destroyed us all. I'm defective and wrong. I deserved it. Deep down, I knew that, but I just couldn't let myself be executed. I couldn't let him kill Mom for my mistakes. I fight, Giles. That's what I do. I'm just sorry I didn't fight soon enough. That I didn't save her. But I promise, I _promise_ never to love again. It's not right for a Slayer to love. I know that now."

A sense of dread spread through Spike's chest, a knowledge that somewhere along the line the slayer he'd admired when he first saw her dancing at The Bronze had somehow been broken. Crushed under the feet of those who were supposed to love her. And that's what really chafed his hide.

For all his gluttony and destruction, Spike was a romantic. He believed in love. In its power. The thought of someone going through their life without love…well, he knew all about that. Spike hadn't truly been loved in over a century, but he still had love itself. He loved Dru, even if she didn't love him in return.

He thrived on love, despite it only being in a half-measure. He couldn't imagine banishing love from his heart entirely. Even now, scorned by Dru, as bitter and resentful as he was, he still loved her.

Once love ceased to exist, the body might as well die. That's what truly terrified him. The Slayer unable to love, leaving her to embrace her death wish. After all, who could bear to live without love?

He pulled her up until she was cradled in his arms, her heartbeat resonating in his chest, her heat wrapping around him until he felt human himself. Pressing his cheek to hers, he whispered in her ear. "Now, listen to me. Everyone needs love. And you have it in spades. Your mum loves you. Those Scoobie snacks of yours adore you, I'm sure. And your old man, he forgives you. He does."

"Dad? Dad? Where did you go? I can't find you."

Spike held her tighter. His words weren't piercing the veil, only upsetting her more.

"Shush, I'm here, luv. Don't cry."

"Dad. Please don't go. Daddy. Daddy. I'll be a good girl. I promise. No more crazy, just please don't go, Daddy."

"You sure do a lot of promisin'. Does anyone ever make promises to you?" he snarled.

Buffy's whimpering cries struck a hateful cord in Spike. She sounded so much like Dru calling for her precious daddy that he couldn't contain the growl rumbling up from his throat. For a century he had cooed and coddled Dru even as she called for another man, but not once had he held it against her, condemned her for it. His love would allow no less than total devotion. But that was before she thrown him away, accusing him of being less than a full demon, and bizarrely unfaithful, if only in his mind.

Hearing Buffy call for Daddy, even as a plea for her biological father, made him fiercely angry. The word daddy from her lips made him want to snarl, smash and bash, until all he could hear was the pounding of panicked heartbeats and gushing blood.

"Rufus?"

The slayer lifted her hand, running her finger through his hair. The action startled Spike into silence, his rumbling snarl dying in his throat. Eyes still closed, head lolling to the side, Buffy frowned.

"No more? You mad at me, baby?"

Buffy flexed her fingers, scratching Spike lightly behind the ear.

"Rufus?"

Spike growled again. Who the fuck was Rufus?

Buffy's lips curved, and she scratched Spike a little harder.

"There you are. You like that don't you?" Buffy cooed, plunging her fingers deeper into his loose curls, eliciting a shiver of pleasure from Spike.

"Yeah," Spike croaked before realizing he'd responded to her coaxing tone. "Fuck." He jerked his head away, feeling a little frisson of shame. It wasn't his place to take pleasure from the Slayer.

When he looked back, Buffy's eyes were clear, but her pupils were dilated so there was only a slender band of green.

"Angel promised to love me. But he left. I guess it's not really a broken promise if he still loves me even when he's far away, but it sure feels like it. Does Dru keep her promises to you?"

The muscle in Spike's jaw jumped. "No, she's broken every single one."

Buffy nodded gravely. "I make promises and I keep them. I am a good girl, but it doesn't seem like it because saving the world ends up causing a crap load of trouble. I've tried really hard to be a good Slayer for Giles, but things haven't really been the same between us since Angel came back from hell. I promised to love Angel forever, but…"

"But, what?"

"If I'm broken, how can I love?"

Spike's chest ached at the lost look on her face. Hadn't he asked himself the same thing every time Dru threw him away? Hadn't he questioned himself every time? Wondered if there was something wrong with him that made him so completely unlovable?

"You're not broken, Slayer." He ran the edge of his thumb down her cheek to the point of her cheek. She leaned into him, her smile faint in the dim light of the cave. Spike glanced at the entrance, noting the creeping shadows.

"We're all broken, Spike. None of us make it out of life undamaged. Not even Beaver Cleaver. He probably grew up to be some creepy Gacy serial killer."

Spike laughed. It was an unexpected sound, even to himself. She surprised him, this Slayer. He liked her quirky humor.

"I suppose. But damaged doesn't mean defective. You'll love again; you just need to find a man worth it. Not some wanker only lookin' out for himself."

"Don't leave."

"Not goin' anywhere till we're safe, Slayer."

"Don't leave me, Angel. I'll do anything. I betrayed my friends for you. Defied my mother. Disrespected my Watcher. All for you. You promised to love me forever. You _promised._ "

Heartsick, Spike moved away, unable to stomach any more. From the entrance he watched the sun approach the horizon while he listened to the Slayer beg for her honey never to leave her, for her friends not to turn their backs on her, for her Watcher to forgive her, for her mother to accept her.

Bloody hell. Did anyone _not_ disappoint the girl? Had no one ever fought for her, sided with her, supported her? Not the support based on their judgments of _what_ the slayer should be; friend, daughter, champion, but what she actually was; a woman to be loved and respected.

No wonder the girl was ready to die. The only thing keeping her alive was her own sense of self-respect, and that was being eroded every day.

Buffy thrashed on the bed as the fever burned her up from the inside. Spike stalked to her side, hauling her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest. The shadows had deepened enough to allow him to skirt through the underbrush in relative safety.

Spike opened his senses. On the far side of the lake a mountain lion slinked along the bank in search of a cool drink of water before returning to its bed beneath a cool shelf of granite. A herd of nearby deer's heartbeats increased, then settled. Birds chattered in the canopy. Wherever the beast hunted it wasn't in the small valley at the moment.

Buffy moaned, and Spike held her closer, anxiously watching the sun sitting on the crest of the purple mountain, painting the landscape in oranges and reds. Holding Buffy was like holding the sun, bright and hot, and near exploding him into flames.

Realizing that he couldn't dunk her in the water while still clothed, he pulled the ragged remains of her clothing off. Her pants were tricky, and he nearly lost his balance twice trying to pull them off without setting her down. He briefly thought about undressing himself, and decided against it. He wouldn't catch ill for being in damp clothes, and he could withstand a little discomfort.

In a testament to how worried he was, he didn't ogle Buffy's naked body. Much. Only enough to confirm she wasn't a natural blonde. By the time he gathered her back up against his chest, the sun had set completely behind the mountain. He bolted from the tree line, hissing when he hit the cold water.

He prepared himself for her to struggle once immersed in the water, but even still she damned near knocked him off his feet with her Slayer strength. She erupted into involuntary squeals of discomfort, her breath coming hot and fast against his neck.

Spike held her tight as she floundered, relief surging through him as he felt her temperature drop. Eventually she settled against him. When he glanced down, she was looking up at him. Outlining the clear green of her eyes was a band of glowing white. It took all of Spike's self control not to drop her in the water and run for the hills.

Oddly enough he didn't feel the same repressive power of predestination he felt the previous times the uberbitch made an appearance. The snapping of the ozone heated the water, but the power remained restrained.

"Spike."

He swallowed when she reached out a hand to caress his cheek. Despite the glowing eyes, it was Buffy who spoke.

"I'm glad you're here."

"Can't rightly say the same, Slayer. If I have to be in the cold, rather it be in the Swiss Alps where I can snack on some long-legged, Nordic snow bunny."

Her lips curved into a faint smile, fingers curling into his hair.

"We've been waiting lifetimes for you."

Spike blinked. It was still Buffy speaking, but her words must have been hijacked. Isn't that always the way with the supernatural powers? Parasitic arseholes, the lot of them.

Except, this seemed less like the previous vessel and possession relationship and more of a blending. Two beings merging into one.

Very disconcerting. Worrisome even.

Downright, fuckin' terrifyin' actually.

Buffy, souped-up and turbogized, just about scared the wrinklies right off him.

"Don't be mad, Spike. If I had to choose, I think it would've been you. I always knew it was you."

His brow creased. It sounded like Buffy, and the glow in her eyes dimmed to nothing, only increasing his confusion.

Who was talking to him and what about?

Buffy's eyes drifted closed, and her hand slid down his chest to plop limply into the water. Now that he'd cooled her body, he needed to warm her up again before she became hypothermic. He hauled her higher in his arms, the water making her slippery, and turned to study the bank.

Something moved in the far distance, inside the gray shadows of the woods. Or he thought it did. Something tall, slender, and sticklike. He stared at the spot, willing it to move again. At this distance, and in the gloom, the trees were dark, twisted things, poised and ready to reach out and strangle a man.

Give him a dark, dank alley any day.

Opening his senses, he listened for a heartbeat that didn't belong, but only heard the frantic beat of Buffy's as it tried to rush blood to her extremities to fight off the cold.

Spike abandoned the ragged remains of her clothing, knowing there was no point in redressing her, and raced back to the cave, instincts screaming that he was being hunted every step of the way.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Many brilliant thanks to ObscureBookWyrm.

A/N: I should note that I don't have any particular religious affiliation, but there are just some things that scare the piss out of my animal brain.

 **Awakening**

Chapter Eight

"You must hunt it, Vampire."

Spike didn't acknowledge the uberbitch. He had spent the night before, after settling the still-naked Buffy into bed, cutting tree limbs and piling them just inside the cave. He had also taken all the water bottles he could find, emptied them out, and filled them with diesel from the aircraft.

The entire time he worked, his skin crawled with the knowledge of being watched. Hunted.

The unholy scent of the beast curled around him. Insidious tendrils soaked into his very flesh, until the only odor he could detect was its wet musk.

When he'd rounded the great trunk of a ponderosa, the beast had been right there, in his face. If Spike didn't have vampire grace, he would have fallen on his arse at his first real glimpse of the creature.

The long, lanky body was attached to the thick tree trunk by very human-looking hands ending in sharp claws instead of hooves, angled upside down so its shaggy hindquarters pointed upwards, its long goat face even with Spike's head.

And it was a goat. Not a mincing shepherd's sheep found in some bucolic setting. A profane one, straight out of Satan's handbook.

The beast was twice as tall as Spike, limbs articulated in an unnatural way to allow it to stand on its hindquarters. Black shaggy fur enveloped its wiry body, hanging in matted clumps at its belly. Short gray fur covered its long face, the perfect pale contrast to its blazing red eyes. Spiraling horns as thick as Spike's forearm swept from its skull.

For a moment, Spike just stared, uncertain of what he was looking at, but knowing he didn't like it one bit.

Then slowly, deliberately, it twisted its long face 180 degrees, pointing its chin downward so it could look Spike eye to eye, hunter to hunter. Then it stretched back its thin, black lips, revealing square, yellow teeth…and smiled.

Spike recognized it immediately. Not by species but by form. Its face had been emblazoned on the cover of every satanic piece of literature, altar, or orgiastic setting since the birth of Christianity.

Spike had always thought that nonsense was just a bit of leftover paganism wriggling itself into the new dominant religion. New priests trying to root out the old, doing away with all that unhealthy gluttony of eating, drinking, and shagging.

But maybe not. Maybe those new priests weren't worried about satyrs or what the fuck else. Maybe they'd been worried about whatever was in the woods with Spike. Because it sure as hell wasn't some prancing, goat-arsed man, looking to shag some wood nymphs while playing pipes.

This was the Pan behind the word _panic._ The old god of hysteria and terror.

Spike whipped out his blade, determined to shred the beast into unrecognizable pieces. The blade flashed in the moonlight, slicing at nothing but darkness. The creature moved so quickly, Spike barely had time to adjust before his knife _thunked_ into the tree trunk.

It disappeared into the tree tops, its black fur blending effortlessly into the shadows. Spike tried to track it by scent, but the odor seeped into the wilderness itself, into the earth, the roots, the very air, tainting juniper and pine with its unholy fragrance.

After that, Spike refused to move mere feet beyond the entrance of the cave for fear the beast would creep in and take Buffy when he wasn't looking. Unable to sleep, he sat with his back to the rock shelf where Buffy slept, guarding her.

The fever had passed, and for the first time since the crash her sleep was a healing one. Spike could still scent the putrescence of her wounds, but it grew fainter with every hour, and the blood rushed with strength through her veins. Even her breathing grew less labored.

Spike on the other hand was worse for wear. He didn't dare hunt, and it had been days since he'd truly slept. He could feel exhaustion and hunger in his very bones.

The sun dipped below the horizon and he knew he needed to risk venturing out for more branches to complete his plan.

"I can't leave her unguarded," he growled at the uberbitch who was watching him with unemotional eyes. Spike didn't glance at her, refusing to relax his vigil in the shadows beneath the bracken. He wasn't confident his senses would detect the beast. Not after last night.

"You mean us," the uberbitch purred.

Spike flashed the bitch his fangs, yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. "No, her. I could give a rat's arse about you and your bloody agenda."

The uberbitch cocked her head, blind, ethereal eyes unveiling all his secrets. "So it is not the Source you seek to protect, William the Bloody, but our vessel."

He thought about prevaricating, but what was the point? He'd proven himself to be Buffy's self-appointed guardian the second he pulled her off the rebar. "Yeah, you could say that. How'd you know my name?"

"We know all our vessels know."

Soddin' figured. And vessels? Did that mean she'd been lurking inside that Chinese chit when he killed her? Inside Nikki? Staring out at him from those fierce, angry eyes he'd seen in his dreams for months after?

"Well, do _you_ know how to get us out of here?" Spike was open to a plan B. Plan A involved some serious blood play. Play he might not survive.

"You've already done so at the cost of your pride. Mayhap your life. You've proven to us that you are a Guardian. Now show us your worth as a Warrior. Defeat the beast that threatens us."

"I don't have to prove a bleedin' thing to you, bitch." Spike paced furiously at the entrance. He could hear the emphases in her words, could practically see the capital letters on the titles of Guardian and Warrior. It made something itch just beneath his breastbone. Predestination settled heavily upon him, and no matter how hard he tried to shake it off, it clung with unceasing tenacity.

"Either way, you must challenge the beast or this vessel will perish."

"Don't you think I soddin' know that?" he spat. "But if I leave it will prance on in here and have itself a real good day."

"We can defend the vessel for a time. Perhaps long enough to hold it until you arrive to lure it out into battle."

"You want to lure it when you can't even stand." He scoffed. "You're loonier than Dru."

"There is much we can do when it is needful." The Slayer tilted its head arrogantly, and just for a moment, Spike thought he saw a hint of Buffy inside those ghostly eyes.

"Yeah? At what cost to Buffy?"

He could just see this bitch using Buffy's body as a soddin' puppet, throwing her around for its own purposes. The chit's wounds wouldn't sustain that kind of movement. They'd break open and she'd end up bleeding to death.

"Her body is strong. She has the potential to house all our strength."

Spike narrowed his eyes, taking a good long look at the being embodied in Buffy's skin. Power flared bright, barely contained within Buffy's small frame. "Bloody brilliant. So why doesn't she?"

"Her body is strong, but her mind is not. It has been corrupted by outside influences."

"I thought you said she had potential. There's not much to be done for the weak-minded."

"We did not say she was of weak mind, only that it is corrupted. Steps are being taken to rectify."

Spike rolled his eyes, turning his head to continue his watch of the woods. "Great. Just what she needs. More super-powered know-it-alls stickin' their nose in it."

With his head turned he didn't see the being's secretive smile, but the strange foreign words rolled over him once again. A new verse seared into his mind.

8888

Giles sat slumped in the driver side seat of the SUV, staring sightlessly at the towering ponderosa pines. Two years ago Buffy had marched away to her death, and he'd been helpless to prevent it. Just as he was helpless now.

Trapped in this vehicle waiting for the sun to go down so his most hated ally could move about freely.

"I think we should talk," Angel prodded gently from the back seat, where he was covered by a thick, fire-proof blanket.

Giles could see no reason for them to converse now. In the predawn hours while Angel drove, Giles had navigated, barely a word spoken between them. When the sun started to rise, wordlessly Angel had pulled over onto the shoulder, and they'd exchanged seats.

Now they were parked off the fire access road, the closest point where they could enter the forest with the ATVs and make their destination.

All that was needed was nightfall. Meanwhile, Buffy suffered horrendous tortures under a sadistic vampire.

No, they had absolutely nothing to talk about.

"As soon as the sun sets, we'll unload the ATVs. I estimate it will take at least four hours to reach our destination. Five at the most, if we encounter any major roadblocks." Giles stuck to the facts.

Angel grunted from the backseat; Giles could hear the rustle of fabric as the vampire shifted.

"I don't think I ever…last year I was still recovering from…hell. And then there was the Mayor and Faith….and everything with Buffy. I just wanted to say…about Ms. Calendar…"

Giles' hand tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles bleaching white. He stared hard at a nearby ponderosa until the reddish, crackled bark swirled into demonic pulsing ciphers of hate.

"I want you to know that I regret everything that happened that year. Her death was a tragedy. I can never repent enough—"

"I think it best if you stop speaking now."

"Giles—"

"Not another word."

"We should talk," Angel pressed.

Giles' hand tightened and the leather creaked. "No. What I should do is open the door, drag you out kicking and screaming and watch you burn like you should have burned in hell. I should avenge her, give her soul peace. But I won't. Not because Buffy fancies herself in love with you, a monster, but because I need you to save her. So I suggest you shut your mouth and do not speak again."

Angel didn't shift, the blanket didn't rustle. Anger, sorrow, and regret welled in the silence in the cab while blue jays chattered gaily just outside the window.

8888

"What are you doing?"

A healthier Buffy peeked at him from over the edge of her sleeping bag. He dropped the bundle of wood he carried and scrounged up one of the ready-made meals that came in the survival pack he'd scavenged from the crash.

He ripped it open, handing it to her. She frowned down at it, but took it, grimacing even more when she shook some of the freeze-dried food into her mouth.

"You going tell me or is it a secret?"

Spike watched her for a moment, amazed at her recovery. She was in no shape to hike out of the mountains, but she certainly wasn't on death's door either.

"There's something hunting us."

Buffy looked confused for a moment. "The creature on the plane? It survived the crash?"

"Yeah. Nasty bugger too." Spike hid his shudder. His Anglican roots, long dormant, were sermonizing about fire and brimstone in the back of his skull.

"And what? You're going to build a big fire to keep it away?" She glanced at all the pine boughs piled at the entrance. "What's that smell?" she asked, her pert nose wrinkled.

"Diesel. It'll help the greenery burn. Will make a fair bit of smoke too. But I've arranged it so it will go out the entrance. Beast like that, it's goin' to shy away from fire. A roaring blaze will keep you safe for a bit."

Unless it made it feel more at home. Fire and brimstone and all that rot.

"What about you?"

"I'm thinkin' I don't smell so good to it. Dead as I am." He scratched the back of his neck, looking her over. "It's you it wants. All warm and wriggly. All that blood leaking from you rung the dinner bell."

"Why hasn't it come sooner?" She frowned. She had no idea how much time had come and gone. "We've been here a while, haven't we?"

"Three days."

"And those soldiers you were talking about before; they didn't come?"

He was silent a moment, debating whether or not to answer. She wasn't ailing as much, not as sickly, strong enough to hear the truth he reckoned. "They came."

Buffy scanned his face, before her mouth dropped open into a dismayed circle. "Oh."

Spike looked away, not willing to see the tiny flash of fear across her face. She hid it quickly, of course, but he'd seen it, and it didn't settle well with him. "It's playing with me. One predator to another. Wants you. Wants to take you from me."

"I'm not yours," Buffy snapped, more than a little offended. No one fought over her like she was a bone, or worse a distressed damsel. Spike didn't answer, and she figured it was because he didn't want to point out her weaknesses. It was strangely considerate of him.

"So what? You're going to swagger out there and call it out? Fight it to the death? Mano a mano?" Her brow crinkled. "Can it even think? I thought it was some dumb cow. It sure sounded like one."

"Not a cow," Spike muttered. "And it can think. Can plot. It'll come for me." Spike indicated the brush. "I just want to make sure it doesn't sneak in for a little sniff beforehand."

"Well, what is it?" she demanded.

"I don't know," he hedged. "But it's old. Powerful."

"You still haven't told me what you're doing. Why you're fighting it now. Give me a few days and we can do it together." Buffy's face flushed, and Spike was relieved to see color in her cheeks, but her agitation grated on him all the same.

"Don't have a few days." Wasn't that the truth. That hellbeast was closing in, creeping around the edges. The hackles on the back of Spike's neck hadn't laid down since last night. Every predator instinct was drawn up tight inside him, ready to fight, ready to defend.

"Sure we do. Just keep that fire burning. Or maybe…give me a couple of hours, and I think I can stand."

Spike huffed, clearly disbelieving that.

"I'm not that sick. I can get up." She proceeded to prove it, and was nearly breathless with pain by the time Spike hustled to her side. She didn't protest when he settled her back. The swamping agony was so great, she didn't even comment on the protective scowl on Spike's face, wigsome as it was.

"Now, you listen here, you stubborn bint. We can't wait because I sent out a childer call to Angelus. His Great Broodiness will be here in a few hours, but I have the feeling that beast out there's not goin' to let him through." Spike backed away, unwilling to stay close to her delicious warmth.

"No. You can't," she whispered through pain-compressed lips, grabbing at his arm.

"I have to." He allowed her to reel him in so he stood in her personal cloud of heat and Buffy-scent. Her crinkled brow was spotted with sweat, and he had to resist the urge to smooth his hand across it.

"Wait until Angel comes. Fight it together."

"Can't," he sighed, wishing it could be that easy. Wishing he could rely on family. On anyone, really. "It could ambush him miles from here. And Angelus would be unprepared. He doesn't know it's out here."

"Warn him," she pleaded, and he had to wonder at it. Was she worried about him? More likely she was worried about her own skin if he died. Or even more likely, she was worried about her honey.

"I've tried," he spat.

She held his eyes in a long searching gaze. "You can't get through?"

Spike shook his head slowly. "He's blocking me."

"Why?"

"When I sent out the call, I broadcasted images of you. It was the only way I could be certain he'd come. But he must think they were threats."

"Against me."

"Yeah." He rolled his eyes.

"So he thinks he's coming to a showdown," she replied solemnly.

"Maybe."

"So he's prepared for an ambush."

"Not really. He can tell exactly where I am down to the inch. All his intent will be focused on me. He won't expect anything to come out of right field." Spike rubbed the back of his neck. He'd already given this serious thought. Angelus in his typical way would rush in to save the girl, thinking that he already had all the facts. The big lug was single-minded when it came to Buffy.

"Not even Dru?"

"He'd have felt her out beforehand. He knows she's not here."

"Oh," she pouted, disappointed. She closed her eyes, looking strained. "Then you go to him. Maybe you can get him to listen."

Spike laughed. "Even if that was possible, I'm not goin' to leave you unguarded. As soon as I slip out, it'll slip in."

The long, searching look she gave him made him uncomfortable. He tried to shift away, but her hand was still on his arm, and even though he could break her hold on him easily, he found himself not inclined to do so.

"So what? You're gonna risk your life for mine?" she whispered.

"No need to make it sound so chivalrous, luv. It's not like that." He kept his tone low, matching her uncomfortable intensity.

"Then what's it like?"

Spike didn't answer. He didn't look at her either. Instead he focused on her small hand resting on his forearm. So small and strong.

"Seriously, Spike. I want to know." Her grip tightened, and he watched her fingers flex.

"Just…" He shrugged off her hold, slashed his hands through the air. "Just keep your eyes open and scream your bleedin' head off if anything but me comes through that opening." He stomped away, kicking the last of the pine boughs into place near the entrance.

"Spike," her voice broke. The yearning sound broke a barrier inside Spike. He whirled on her, eyes blazing.

"Before I go, answer me this. Who's Rufus?"

Buffy's face clouded, her eyes unfocused as she thought. "Are…are you asking me about my cat?" She remembered dreaming about him yesterday. Had she said something during her fever?

"Your cat?"

"Yeah, he died when I was twelve. Kitty leukemia. I still miss him. He'd climb up on my chest and purr. I could feel it all the way into my insides. It was the best purr."

"Rufus is a cat." Spike sounded unconvinced or maybe a little dumbfounded. Or insulted?

"Um, yeah. He was all white except for one black spot on his forehead. He reminded me of that yin yang symbol thingy."

"Male and female energies," he muttered, dropping his eyes to his feet.

"I guess. I always thought it was a good and evil sort of thing." Buffy shrugged, gasping at the pain. His glance was sharp and a little unnerving. Once he saw that she was fine, he dropped his eyes again.

"Not strictly speakin'," he corrected.

"Well anyways, I thought it was neat. Sorta like human nature. Not everyone is all good or evil. There's always a spot of darkness or light."

The intensity of Spike's stare made Buffy a little uncomfortable. Finally, he glanced away to the dark entrance.

"Sorry, luv. I need this now." Carefully he removed his duster from her bed and slid it on, slipping on his persona of the Big Bad at the same time. Buffy could see his shoulders become straighter, his muscles tenser, the lines of his face harder. With his duster on he looked more like a vampire than a man. When he turned away, something seized in Buffy's chest, a hint of panic.

"Why are you doing this, Spike?" She just couldn't figure it out. Any of it. Why she was here, tucked away safely in this cave, and not dead back at the plane? Why had Spike fed her, doctored her, and soothed away her fears? Her memories of yesterday were spotty, but she definitely remembered Spike's strong, sure hands and his rumbling voice comforting her.

She certainly didn't understand why he was willing to risk his life to keep her safe. Like he said, the beast wasn't interested him. It wanted her and all her warm, wriggly life. Spike could have slipped away days ago and left her at the beast's mercy.

So why hadn't he?

His back to her, Spike turned his head so she could see his profile. He stared at the dying sun, watching as the shadows crawled out.

"You girls. Slayers. I never gave you much thought beyond the challenge. You're the best of the best, top of the predator food chain, and all I wanted was to prove my rocks, first to Angelus, then to Dru, by beating you in battle. Should've known it wouldn't work. Just made the Poof jealous, or maybe sick. Didn't know it at the time, but he had his soul that first go around in China. And Dru…well, you know how she is. But you girls…"

He was silent long enough for Buffy to start to fidget. She wanted nothing more than for him to finish his thought. As if by him doing so, she'd gain insight into Spike, and maybe into herself as well.

"What about us?" she asked, wide-eyed and a little breathless.

He turned to look at her then, eyes searching. She stilled under his gaze, wondering what he hoped to see.

"It just occurred to me, is all. You girls are champions. Protectors of the entire soddin' world. Saw that when the Poof tried to pull it all into hell. But who stands up for you when you're knocked down? Who champions you?"

Buffy stared at him, mouth slightly ajar, eyes huge. "Spike, Slayers don't get champions," she said softly, gently, like she was trying to explain death to a child. "When we get knocked down, we die. Then another stands up in our place." She shrugged, the action revealing a tiny shred of hopelessness. No one knew better than she the inevitability of destiny. You could fight it, but there was no winning.

"I figured you'd say something like that." He adjusted the collar of his duster, squaring his shoulders to go. Suddenly, Buffy's eyes sharpened on him.

"You're not seriously claiming to be my _champion,_ are you? Because that's just ridiculous," she scoffed, chin held high.

"Damn right it is!" he sneered, angry at her haughty dismissal. It reminded him just a little too much of candle-lit parlors and prettily coifed women. "That damn ugly critter out there is between me and my next hot meal, is all. Someone's got to take it out, and it sure as hell ain't goin' to be you."

"And why haven't I been your hot meal?" she demanded. Fresh Slayer blood was on tap, and as far as she knew he hadn't had a sip. Hadn't pinned her down, torn in, and made her neck his chalice.

All of his actions – his mercy, his protectiveness, even his gentle care for her – all stank of white-hat goodness. Given the circumstances, it was downright heroic.

When he didn't answer, she blurted out, a little smugly, "Maybe I'm your spot of good in all that evil."

He looked her over from head to toe before finally saying, "If that's so, then that make me your spot of evil." He laughed at her horrified look and sauntered out.

Buffy gathered herself, leaning up as far as she could on an elbow. "Spike," she called.

He paused to look at her.

"Don't die." There wasn't a hint of mockery in her pale, solemn face.

The smile he flashed her was pure cocky swagger. "I'm William the Bloody Magnificent. It's goin' to take more than some Bible-thumper's wet dream to take me out."

The silver of his lighter flashed in his hand as he set the boughs on fire from outside the cave. Through the first flickering flames, he saw Buffy's eyes bleed white.

Hypnotized, Spike listened as she chanted the final verse, the exotic words searing into his mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Thank you ObscureBookWyrm for being the best beta ever!

 **Awakening**

Chapter Nine

Spike worked quickly, gathering up pine boughs and building a circle of them in a glade not far from the cave. He couldn't sense the beast, but that didn't mean it wasn't lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting, incensed at the flames preventing it from reaching Buffy.

In his duster pockets he'd stored two plastic bottles filled with fuel. He emptied one onto the boughs, and stuffed a rag torn from Buffy's destroyed shirt in the other.

To steady his nerves he let his mind wander to the fact that Buffy lay naked under the down sleeping bag. All pink and perfect and warm.

He was so caught up in his thoughts he almost missed the sound of a twig breaking. Spike whirled around, finding everything undisturbed. Instincts quivering, Spike studied the shadows. The breeze moved the branches, but beneath the high boughs of a Jeffery pine the shadows didn't sway quite in rhythm with the rest.

Spike took a step forward, and the shadow melted away. Cocking his head, he listened. He could hear the crackling of the flames he'd set to protect Buffy, the wind rustling through the trees, but no other sounds, no wildlife, not even insects, a sure sign the beast was near.

Faster than the wind, Spike sprinted towards the cave. The flames still towered high, but a few branches had been dragged away from the conflagration, small blazes sizzling in the wet undergrowth.

Standing protectively in front of the blaze, Spike whirled to search the tree tops. In the distance a bovine cough rang out, angry and thwarted. Spike ran and leapt, clearing the ground by fifteen feet to land on a wide branch. From beneath his duster, he slid a long-bladed Bowie from its sheath at the small of his back, slashing up, blade out.

The beast barked, startled into nearly slipping out of the tree he'd been hiding in. Spike missed his mark, but his grin was nasty and triumphant as he balanced on the branch, face to face with the beast.

"That's right, you nasty bugger. I'm more of a threat than you thought. You want her? _You go through me,_ " he hissed the last words, face transformed.

Instead of bolting, the beast lunged, roaring in its wet, guttural way. Spike dodged, boots slipping on the bark. Unbalanced, he slid a few feet before regaining his equilibrium in the tree. Spike leapt from the branch, feeling an empty swipe of claws slice the air where he'd stood only seconds before.

When he hit the ground, Spike whirled, expecting to be face-to-face with the beast; instead he was met with a massive thigh covered with stinking fur. Spike looked up and up and up. The beast towered over him on two legs, its beady red eyes glaring down at him from where its slashing horns met the pine boughs.

"Bloody hell," Spike gasped. He knew it was big, but not that big.

He slashed out, aiming for what he hoped was a tendon. The sharp edge of the blade only served to shear some of the thick fur from its hindquarters, the wool too dense and matted for the knife to get any real penetration.

The beast swayed forward, and Spike scrambled back. It fell to all fours, crouching belly down to the ground until it slunk no higher than Spike's chest. There was a crackling sound, the sound bubble wrap makes when crumpled, as the beast twisted its head, horns pointed to the ground, chin aimed at the sky.

It looked up at Spike, peeled back its black lips over yellow teeth, and sniggered.

"Sod this."

Spike turned on his heel and bolted.

He didn't need to turn around to know the beast chased him through the bracken. He could feel its fetid breath on his neck, smell its unholy stink.

Sheathing his knife, he reached into his duster pockets, fishing out the Molotov cocktail with one hand and his lighter with the other. He cleared the heap of pine boughs he'd used to form a barrier, and kept running until he reached the center of the arena he'd created.

He flipped open his Zippo, flicking the flint wheel. Sparks burst and died. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

"Fuck," Spike breathed, just as a large and fetid weight barreled over him. He lost the bottle. He lost the lighter. Pinned beneath the beast he struggled, screaming when it took his bicep between it large, square teeth and bit down.

It wrapped its paw around his shoulder from behind, thick black claws curling around to pierce him above the heart. Vamped, pinned and desperate, Spike did the only thing he could. He bit down on the creature's forearm, past wet wool and rubbery skin. It tasted of rot, death, and sulfur. Spike worried his fangs like a dog on a bone, yanking away as much flesh as he could. The creature coughed, the force of the bovine sound rattling through Spike's bones.

His shoulder released, Spike used the small freedom to swing back his elbow, hoping to make contact with anything. He connected with the side of the creature's face, the thick, angular bone of its skull nearly fracturing Spike's elbow.

It was worth the pain. The beast reared back, and Spike scrambled forward, his hand settling on the plastic water bottle filled with diesel. Behind him he could hear the beast charging forward. Still on his hands and knees, Spike flipped around, removed the rag from the bottle's mouth, and squeezed.

Yellowish liquid squirted out into the beast's face. It reared back, bawling loudly as the fuel burned its eyes. Spike summersaulted to the side, toward where he thought his lighter might be. The entire time he squeezed, spraying fuel all down the creature's shaggy side.

The lighter wasn't easy to find. It was dark, the rot of seasons-old pine needles thick on the forest floor. Spike skimmed his hands over the ground while the beast snorted and pawed at its face behind him.

"C'mon! C'mon!" he hissed.

Spike's hand closed over something small and cold. Kneeling on the forest floor, he flipped open the lighter, flicking the flint wheel frantically. Behind him the beast gave a great braying cough of anger, staggering towards him.

The flame ignited, washing Spike's leonine face in a cascade of orange light. Without a glance behind him, Spike tossed the lighter over his shoulder. There was a great whoosh and a howl. Spike rolled forward, away from the thrashing beast behind him.

The scent of wet wool became overpowered by acrid sulfur. Flames engulfed the beast as it rolled around on the ground, its huge body tossing dead bracken into the air.

Spike's face-splitting grin fell from his face as he realized the wet pine needles beneath the beast weren't catching fire. Instead they were extinguishing the beast, leaving behind only a bit of singed wool.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

Spike darted as close to the flaming beast as he dared, hunting once again for the damned lighter. Nothing. It was gone.

Thinking quickly, Spike kipped to his feet and darted over to fuel-laced branches he'd set up beforehand. Grabbing a nice dry branch, he raced back to the flaming beast to catch it alight. As Spike backed away, the beast struggled to its feet, smoke wafting from its huge, wool-covered body.

The beast faced Spike, its barrel sides heaving, hot breath spewing cloudy streams in the cold air. One eye was blind from the diesel, its milky hue a Pepto-Bismol pink.

Makeshift torch in hand, Spike took another step back. The beast followed, a marked difference in its demeanor. Before it had been toying with Spike, taking pleasure in the hunt. Now every precise predatory movement, every curl of its black lips, told Spike that it was done fucking around.

Time to fight. Time to kill.

It was Spike's turn to smile with amusement as he flipped the torch into the pile of pine boughs. Flames leapt up towards the starry sky as they raced along the line, completely encircling the two opponents inside the arena.

"Just me and you now, you bastard. To the death, yeah?"

The beast snorted in what Spike took to be agreement.

Hands freed, Spike reached beneath his duster and grasped the hilts of the knives sheathed at his back. They slid free, the long, sharp blades glinting in the moonlight as Spike leaned his weight on his toes, ready to dance.

The beast reared back onto its hind feet, towering over Spike. Undaunted, Spike flipped the blades, having learned that quick, shallow slices weren't going to work, and darted forward. With a roar, he sunk the blades to the hilts in the creature's lower belly.

Hot blood spurted over his face, gagging him with its rank smell. The beast toppled forward, and Spike scrambled to unstick his knives and dodge to the side. One blade came free, but the other stuck, forcing Spike to abandon it lest he get crushed beneath the beast.

He expected the creature to be unsteady on its feet, or at the very least slow to turn, but as he pivoted to sink his knife near the creature's spine, he was met head on. Down on all fours, the creature angled the crown of its skull, aiming its sharp horns to the side, and swept its head.

Spike bowed his body, keeping his soft underbelly safe from being gored, but the other horn sliced across his upper thigh, opening a wide, deep gash.

Knocked off balance, Spike stumbled back, the beast following. He slashed out, visceral satisfaction unfurling in his gut as the blade sliced across the beast's face, dying the short, gray wool a bright crimson.

Instead of retreating, the beast charged, too quick this time for Spike to dodge. Fire burned down his arm and spread across his chest as one of the beast's horns impaled him through the shoulder. Fingers numb, he lost the knife to the wet bracken on the forest floor.

Spike screamed, guttural and agony ridden, but laced with anger and fierce determination. No way in soddin' hell was some four-legged, foul hell-beast going to defeat him.

"Spike!"

The beast reared up, lifting Spike off his feet until he dangled from the creature's horn twenty feet in the air.

He angled his head, squinting his eyes to see past the roaring flames that encircled him. Outside the arena he could see two shadows. Dismissing them, he returned his attention to the beast. Meeting the creature's eyes, he grinned, blood staining his fangs.

"Think you got me? I'm William the fuckin' Bloody. You're nothin' but a rank beast past its prime."

He wrapped his hands around the wide base of the beast's horn. It was so thick that his fingers didn't touch. To give himself added traction, he planted one boot between the creature's eyes, using the stability to straighten his body and pull himself off the horn.

The creature bawled, and Spike hung onto the horn, swinging around so he could wrap his thighs around its neck.

The beast shuddered hard, trying to shake him off. The blood on Spike's hands made his grip slippery on the smooth horns, but he held on, vision wavy from the sound shaking and blood loss.

"Let's see how far this ugly mug of yours can go."

Spike squirmed up, wedging most of his torso between the backswept horns. He leaned his full weight to one side while snaking his arm around the opposite side of the beast's neck to wrap his fingers around its long snout. He found purchase in its jawbone, digging his claws deep into the soft tissue of its cheek.

The creature tried to shake him off, but he was well and truly engaged. Using the strength in his thighs, Spike leaned his weight forward on the horn, while pulling back on the creature's jaw. The neck twisted easily at first, and Spike could fell the clicks and pops of its spinal cord beneath his taut stomach as it shifted.

Spike was hanging nearly upside down, only the formidable strength of his abdominal muscles keeping pressure on the beast's neck. The creature fell forward, the impact nearly shaking Spike off and jiggling his insides. On the ground, Spike was able to dig his heels into the dirt, straightening out of a squat to put more pressure on the creature's neck.

They were face to face now, and Spike readjusted his slippery grip, staring into its eyes. He grinned. It wasn't a victorious grin. It was a nasty, wicked stretching of his lips that flashed his fangs.

"It's a myth that an owl can turn its head 360," he panted. "I'm betting you can't either."

The beast bared its square teeth and tried to take a chunk of Spike's forearm. His grip slipped, trying to keep out of its mouth. The beast took advantage of the lessened pressure and flipped onto its back, nearly untwisting its neck entirely.

"Fucker!" Spike roared.

He spun, throwing his leg out to straddle the beast's shaggy neck. Its flailing claws caught him in the thighs and back, but Spike gritted his teeth and ignored it. He reapplied his grip and twisted for all his worth.

More than halfway through, the bones in the neck caught, no longer twisting smoothly.

The beast brayed, coughed, and struggled.

"Soddin' die already," Spike screamed through gritted teeth.

Spike forced his body forward with the last bit of his strength. There was a snap and crack, and the catch in the creature's neck gave way.

The beast's cries strangled and died. Its struggling body gave one last shudder, digging its claws even deeper into Spike's back. Spike held the neck tight until the last shudder faded away. Only when the beast lay still, no breath, no heartbeat pounding in his ears, did Spike let go of the creature's horns.

He fell forward off the beast, its claws ripping from his flesh. His arms were jelly after his intense exertion, and he couldn't find the strength to break his fall. He fell face first into the damp, blood-spattered pine needles.

"Good lord."

Spike turned his head to see Angelus and Giles standing over him. The flames he'd ignited had died down just enough for them to pull some branches away to clear a narrow path into the arena.

The murderous look on Angelus's face told Spike that his survival of the beast may have been all for naught.

At least Buffy was safe. Angelus and her watcher would see to the rest.

Angelus knelt beside him, running one hand up Spike's back, briefly prodding his wounds, before threading his fingers through Spike's hair.

Spike closed his eyes, his demon reveling in the touch of his grandsire. That was another thing all those Hollywood movies got wrong. Vampires weren't solitary creatures. They were pack animals, happiest when they were with family.

Spike was a demon without family. Thrown over by his sire, reviled by his grandsire, rejected by his blood, there was a deep hole inside Spike that yearned to be filled by family…by acceptance.

Angelus fisted his hand, pulling Spike's head back so his neck was exposed. Both thrilled and terrified, Spike was too weak to move to protect himself. Angelus levered himself down, until his face was close to Spike's.

"You dared to take what's mine, boy?"

Spike closed his eyes in defeat. No family reunion then, but swift vengeance.

Angelus raised his other hand, stake ready to thrust through Spike's back and into his heart.

Spike choked; he thought it was blood, then he realized it was predestination. The ionized air became thick, crackling with energy. Angelus stumbled back, dropping to both his knees as his demon forced its way forward in a crunch of cartilage. Angelus' yellow eyes were impossibly wide as all three men watched as the uberbitch wearing Buffy's skin passed unharmed through the crackling fire.

"Buffy?" Giles stumbled back.

The only one not to physically react was Spike, who only fell back to the soft forest floor when Angelus released his hold.

Spike's weakness didn't stop him from watching her ethereal glide towards him. Nor did it stop him from appreciating her beautiful naked body, even washed in a pale, glowing light.

She strode up to him, her feet practically under his nose. Inanely he noted that even the shell pink of her toe polish glowed.

With one hand, she reached down to grab him under the arm, lifting Spike effortlessly until he dangled from her grasp. He tried to wrap his hand around her wrist, but it proved to be too much effort and his arm flopped back to his side.

"You have proven yourself worthy to us and this vessel, William the Bloody." Her voice crashed over the men. Angelus cringed with a small whimper of pain, and Giles fell to his knees beside him. "Mind and body are recognized, together we see, and she agrees."

"Lower the volume, luv." When Spike smiled cockily, blood streamed from the corners of his mouth.

Her face remained impassive, but when she spoke again her tone was modulated, earning a gasp of relief from Giles and Angelus.

"Kneel before us and swear the oath of vassalage we have taught you."

She released her grip on him, and Spike fell to both his knees. He swayed, only sheer force of will keeping him upright.

Frowning down at him, she prodded one of his knees with her toe. "Kneel as the Warrior you are, not as a slave."

At her prodding, he lifted one knee, genuflecting before her.

"Now swear," she demanded.

Behind him, Angelus struggled, trying to overcome the sheer power the uberbitch emanated. Almost impervious, Spike barely reacted to the overwhelming awesomeness that nearly crushed Angelus.

She lifted her foot as if to prod him again. "No," Spike spat out before she could touch him. "I won't swear fealty to you."

"You would leave this vessel after all you have endured for her?" She lifted one elegant brow.

Spike struggled to answer. He didn't know what he felt for Buffy, especially after all they'd shared, all he'd done to ensure her safety, but he knew he wanted nothing to do with the being in front of him. Seeing Angelus forced to his knees just solidified the knowledge that this being had power over the demon residing inside vampires, and that made Spike afraid. Afraid for himself, for his free will.

"I'd leave you. I won't be leashed like a soddin' dog to the Slayer line for all eternity."

A small, secretive smile tipped up the corners of her mouth, hinting at both pride and disappointment at his cleverness.

"Will you swear fealty to our vessel? Her vassal for the entirety of her life and her life only?"

Spike hesitated, dropping his chin so he wasn't caught in her ethereal gaze. "I won't be leashed to anyone's side," he declared with less heat.

"If you do not, she will die in little more than a year's time."

Pain spread through Spike's chest, an uncomfortably tight, agonizing feeling, like the air was being pressed from his lungs. Breathless as he was, he still panicked at the sensation. At the idea of loss Buffy's death would evoke in him.

"N-no." Angelus struggled to say more, but the words were lost in the waves of power crashing against him.

The uberbitch cocked her head, looking past his bloody face and into his eyes, scrying his very being of all its secrets.

"You would be free to come and go as you please, vampire. But should our vessel call, you would hear and respond. After all, you would be her Champion. We would have thought you would desire such, after the care you rendered to this vessel's wellbeing."

"Buffy doesn't need a soddin' Champion. _She's_ the champion."

The uberbitch's look of amusement disappeared as Angelus forced himself to his feet, swaying, but strong.

"No. There's no way that Spike," he spat his childer's name with such hateful venom that spittle flew from his curled lips. "Is worthy of vassalage." He pulled himself straighter, throwing his shoulders back. "I will take the oath."

Power pulsed through the clearing, knocking Angelus back to his knees. Spike swayed where he knelt. Giles, who had sat back on his heels, had to fist his hands in the pine needles to ground himself.

"He has proven his worth. You have not, regardless of the numerous opportunities to do so. We saw you as a Warrior when you fought at our vessel's side, but we could not scry your true intentions through the camouflage of your soul. It wasn't until you were stripped of its falsehood that we could see your true self. Thus your guardianship proved null when you abandoned her to revel in your nature.

"This vampire," she flared her hand towards Spike. "Has proven he is both Warrior and Guardian. He is our choice."

Angelus's mouth worked, but the swamping power clutched at his throat. The uberbitch turned her attention back to Spike, whose strength faltered from blood loss and the battering of her power.

"William the Bloody, will you walk away from this vessel as did her last champion, thus remaining forever unbound as he will remain forever unbound, or will you grasp your destiny and speak the words I have taught you?"

Spike looked up. He didn't see her ethereal eyes or the exuded power that made her glow. Or even the faint shimmer of _something_ indefinable fluttering about her shoulders. All he saw was Buffy. Her strength, her determination, how hard she tried. The thought of her dead in a year's time because no one, despite all their best intentions, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her in a fight, accepting her for everything she was, not just the bits they liked.

She made promise after promise, but had anyone ever made a promise to her and kept it? Could he be that man? The one to keep his promises?

The answer was no, because simply stated, he wasn't a man.

He opened his mouth to refuse, but instead other words–right and true words–fell from his mouth. The words that the Slayer had taught him over the course of the last several days.

"I, Spike, William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, give my bonded oath to serve you, Buffy Anne Summers, Vampire Slayer. I hereby swear to protect and obey you. I shall be loyal and faithful. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything to harm you or yours on the condition that you will hold to me as I shall deserve it. I submit myself to your will and will keep faith with you against all creatures, living or dead."

"We hear your words Spike, William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, and we accept. Take of my blood and be ours."

She held out her wrist, and still kneeling as her knight, he leaned forward reverently. Her blood, so much more powerful than when he'd lapped it off the fuselage floor, flowed through his veins, healing him in a rush of effervescent, almost electric charge.

Magic snapped in the air, lighting bolts flinging from their bodies, catching nearby trees afire. The earth rolled beneath their feet, knocking Angelus and Giles off their knees. A red glow, pulsing from the epicenter of Spike's mouth on Buffy's wrist, expanded until its warmth encased them. For a moment the bubble went solid, shielding them from curious eyes, before it cracked in a jagged arc of twisting white and black lighting that shattered it like glass.

When the debris cleared, Spike was kneeling before Buffy, his head bent, her hand lying atop his hair.

"It has been witnessed by both the living and unliving. From this day forth, Spike, William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers shall be the faithful vassal of Buffy Anne Summers, Vampire Slayer." After her decree, she glanced down at Spike, who lifted his head to gaze up at her. "We have every confidence in you, Champion."

Her hand fell away from his head at the same time the ethereal light fled her wide eyes. Her lashes feathered over her cheeks, and Buffy collapsed forward. Spike lunged, gathering her up in his arms.

The power dispersed, Giles could finally breathe, but he still couldn't draw breath as he watched how gently the dangerous master vampire cradled Buffy to his chest. Angelus scrambled to his feet, meaty hands fisted at his sides.

Buffy's lashes fluttered, her clear eyes meeting Spike's. At the sight, Spike dropped his head, pressing his brow to hers so he could peer deeply into her eyes. In that one look, he knew she was forever changed. Her eyes had reverted to their normal color, but banded around the beautiful spring green was a white ring. A reminder of what lurked just beneath her skin.

Her face was a mask of confusion, and she had yet to notice her watcher and ex-lover hovering near, her entire attention riveted on Spike. She lifted her hand, hovering over his bloodstained face.

"You're hurt. What happened?" she whispered, her voice broken with strain.

"Killed the beast, luv," he told her solemnly. "Proved myself your champion."

Her hoarse chuckle resonated from her chest. "I don't need a champion. I'm the slayer!"

Spike widened his eyes playfully. "That's what I told the dozy bint!"

"What bint?" Buffy cocked her head curiously, and all Spike could do was laugh, his entire body shaking, and her along with him. Of course she didn't know. A being of immeasurable power dwelled inside her, and she had no idea.

"Tell you later."

"Buffy," Angel growled, stepping forward.

Buffy jolted in Spike's arms. When she tried to climb out of Spike's lap, she noticed something very troubling.

"Spike! I'm naked!" Instead of climbing out of his lap, she tried to bury herself in his chest. She turned her accusing eyes on him, to which Spike merely licked his teeth and leered.

"How else would I have my wicked way with you?"

"Spike!" she choked back a laugh, exasperated and more than a little embarrassed. Angel hadn't even seen her fully naked that on that fateful night two years ago, and, oh, God, there was her watcher…watching.

All those thoughts were being processed even as Spike was gently setting her down, angling his body between hers and the two bystanders as he shrugged off his duster to wrap around her shoulders. She grasped the lapels and pulled it tight across her front.

Still woozy from her injuries and fever, she swayed. Bloody, but fully healed after the infusion of super-powered blood, Spike bent down and swept her up in his arms.

"No!" Angelus took another threatening step. "Give her to me."

"Angel." The softly spoken word could easily be mistaken for longing if it wasn't for the way Buffy leaned her weight into Spike, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

"Not how it works now, mate." Spike shook his head, frowning.

"And, pray tell, how does it work now?" Giles asked. He had no reference for what had just happened. It was unprecedented. He had never seen anything remotely like it in all his books. Nor did he imagine he would. Thankfully, he had renewed his acquaintance with the Council; certainly he would need their expertise in the coming months.

"Angelus knows. That's why he offered himself up. The Oath of Vassalage means one thing."

Buffy's hand found its way to the back of his neck, her fingers curling into his hair. He looked down at her. He expected her to be gazing lovelorn at her ex, maybe glaring at Spike angrily for taking the place of her great brooding champion. Instead, her eyes dropped sleepily, almost disguising the look of complete trust in them.

Paralyzed by emotion he couldn't name, he didn't look away from the vision she made as Angelus spoke.

"It's just something that's passed down from sire to childer like all the other archaic vampire laws and rituals that aren't used anymore. No one believes it to be true. It's a goddamn fairy tale. King Arthur shite." Angelus slashed a frustrated hand through the air. His features were paler than normal, his eyes a little wild at what he'd just witnessed.

"Yes," Giles pressed. "But what is it? What does it mean for Buffy?"

"She belongs to him now," Angelus hissed, impotent rage boiling off the older vampire. Normally it would have made Spike's hackles stand on end, but the sire power Angelus emanated crashed up against Spike's defenses, sizzling and evaporating like droplets of water on a hot plate.

Still staring down at Buffy, Spike replied almost tonelessly. "No, you stupid git. It means I belong to her. I'm _her_ champion. I stand up for her, and only her."

Smiling, Buffy closed her eyes, her breathing evening out.

"No. I refuse to accept this. Give her over." Angelus reached out for Buffy, meaning to tear her forcibly from Spike's arms if he had to.

Spike's gameface slid forward with a crack of cartilage, and suddenly the clearing charged with irrepressible power.

Power so great it stole Giles' breath and froze Angelus where he stood.

When Spike lifted his gaze, his yellow eyes had disappeared. Instead, glowing white eyes stared back at the two astonished men. From his glowing gaze tiny tempests of black lightning danced, sparking at the corners.

"That's not going to happen, mate," Spike's voice, deep and unearthly, resounded around them. "You haven't a ticket to this ride," he told them, a slow, fierce grin revealing his fangs.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own or profit from BtVS.

Thanks so much to ObscureBookWyrm.

Awakening

Chapter Ten

Spike and Buffy were reclined in the back seat of the SUV, her back to his chest, her hips between his legs, his arms wrapped protectively around her waist, and they were both sound asleep.

Giles watched a moment before turning back to the dark, twisting road before them. Beside him, Angel throbbed rage – living and breathing – in the tight confines of the SUV, as he drove with controlled precision only a vampire could manage.

Aside from a brief spat when Spike refused to relinquish his claim on Buffy as he carefully pulled her into the back seat with him, none of the men had spoken for hours. Drained, Buffy had slept through the ATV ride and the transfer to the SUV. Giles had no idea how Spike managed to drive the ATV with Buffy unconscious in his lap, but he had done so with skill, leaving Angel and Giles to share the second four-wheeler.

Now, they were on their way over the mountain to Sunnydale. Giles worried about Buffy's wounds, but Spike reassured him she was healing and only needed rest. Spike's unconscious state in a vehicle with a Slayer, her watcher, and the vampire's angry sire was proof positive that he needed rest as well.

"Perhaps you should explain the Oath of Vassalage to me. And please keep in mind, Angelus, I will be vigorous in my fact-checking once we return." Giles' tone was barely a murmur, but there was no mistaking the undertone of steel lacing through his request.

Angel growled low in his throat, the leather of the steering wheel creaking under his tightening grip. "It's a fairy tale."

"So you've said, but I'd like to hear the tale, if you please."

"It's just…" Angel rubbed his creased brow, narrowed eyes never leaving the road. "Certain rites and rituals that are passed from sires to childer in keeping with vampiric tradition."

"What sort of rites?" Giles canted toward Angel. He wished he had a recorder or at the very least a pad and pencil.

"Rites humans aren't privy to," Angel spat.

Giles' blue eyes turned to gunmetal gray as he glared at the other man. "I suggest you make me privy to this one."

Angel sighed, wiping his broad hand down his face. "It's not so much a rite as...You know, a vampire can't…" Angel wavered, looking for the word. "Initiate it. It has to be…the Slayer makes the choice. _She chooses_. Only she knows the words and they are fleeting. Once said they're forgotten by all those who witness it."

Giles realized with a start that the memory was already fading. He knew what he'd seen, what he'd been privy to, but the words Spike spoke had already vanished.

Angel collected himself in the driver seat, dark, clawing caricatures of pine trees whisking by the windows, slivers of deep woods illuminated by the flashing headlights with each twisting turn of the road.

"It's more of a myth…or better yet, a cautionary tale. If you're a bad vampire, if you don't follow your nature – your true demon nature – if you aren't ruthless enough or bloodthirsty enough, that the Slayer will come. Not to dust you, but to claim you as hers. As her minion. Her slave."

"Her champion?"

The muscle in Angel's jaw flexed.

"She forces the oath onto unsuspecting vampires. Weak vampires. Those who are too lazy to hunt or too soft to kill."

"That doesn't seem the case here," Giles prodded, wanting the truth. "Spike's a ruthless hunter. A merciless killer."

In a burst of energy, Angelus slammed his fist repeatedly into the steering wheel, his larger frame swelling dangerously in the small space. The car swerved, veering into the other lane before correcting.

Pressed against the door, body angled towards his enemy, Giles watched as the vampire blew great billowing breaths through his nose in an effort to calm himself. Giles had never seen the vampire breathe before, and it tickled something in the back of his mind.

He glanced into the back seat, where both Buffy and Spike had slept through the commotion. Restless, Buffy had turned until she lay chest to chest with the vampire, her face pressed into his throat. Spike's hands had crept away from Buffy's waist until one wrapped around her hip, the other cupping the back of her head, holding her to him. Narrowing his eyes to focus in the dark, Giles watched Buffy's body lift as Spike took a breath.

Chest tight, he turned back to the road, keeping the dark outline of Angel's profile in his peripheral.

"The truth if you please," he demanded.

"That's the truth." Angel paused. "One of them. As with all fairy tales there's different versions."

"And the other version?"

Angel vibrated with barely contained fury, and Giles feared another outburst. With a deep breath the vampire calmed, his chin angling down even as he watched the road.

"That the Slayer is seeking a vampire worthy of her."

Giles digested this bit of information. The thought that a vampire, any vampire, souled or unsouled, had the potential to be worthy of a slayer was…unsettling.

"How can that be?"

"Again, it's all a vampire fairy tale. A….creation myth," Angel muttered.

"What do you mean?" Giles looked at him sharply.

"To understand what the Slayer is seeking, you have to understand what she is. What vampires are."

"What they are?" Giles thought he knew the answer to this, thought he'd known since he was in short pants, but the solemnity of Angel's tone sobered him. It reminded him that hubris was the height of folly, and that only a foolish man believed he knew all there was to know.

Angel took a deep breath. "In the beginning there was only darkness. Chaos. Demons dwelled within it. But…." For the first time since the conversation, Angel looked at Giles. "Then God said let there be light, and there was light."

Giles waited for him to continue, but there was only silence and the darkness that surrounded them.

"Then what?" he prodded.

"Well, it wasn't like turning on a light switch, was it? It was war. The darkness against the light. A war for supremacy and in between were the humans.

" _Demon_ is a human concept." Angel continued. "You read it in the ancient texts. In epic tales that talk about the beginning times of old kings, demons are just blanket concepts for supernatural creatures. _All_ supernatural creatures."

The tightness in Giles' chest expanded, pressing with agonizing pressure against his ribs. As an expert in history he knew this. He knew that _demon_ was a concept ancient peoples used long before it became synonymous with evil. Even now, he and the Scoobies tagged the title demon to every _other_ sentient creature they came across, regardless of how those creatures named themselves. It was the untranslatable word that stood in for the "other". The unidentified race that existed before humans. The unexplainable. The different.

And different came in many, many forms.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that's what makes a slayer. The first men called to a demon to fight demons. One in direct opposition to what they needed to fight. One that wasn't for the darkness, but against it. Once you understand that, then you understand what she's seeking."

"Which is?"

"The omega to her alpha. The darkness to her light. The demonic to her…"

"Angelic…" Giles breathed.

The gravity of the revelation hit Giles like a blow to the chest. The source, the power inside Buffy, inside all slayers, was angelic in nature.

"Do you really believe that's what she is? An angel?"

"Who knows!" Angel flung up a hand. "Like I said, it's all speculation. Rumors and fairy tales."

Giles nodded, grim. What were the concepts of demon and angel really? Were they beings fueled by holy and unholy essences or just creatures like any other? Supernatural, yes, but were they really divine?

"Then what?" Giles asked.

Angel shook his head. In disbelief? In denial? Giles wasn't sure. "Once the angel finds her demon, then together they balance each other until they ascend."

"Ascend? Off this plane?" Giles' wide hand massaged his chest, trying and failing to rub away the growing pit in his heart.

"No. Nothing like that. At least I don't think so. They just…. _become."_

"Become what?" The ache didn't lessen.

"Whole, I guess. I don't know."

"Angelus!"

"I don't know," Angel cried. "I don't. Know one knows. The last time a Slayer claimed a champion was over a millennium ago. And like I said, vampires aren't privy to the ritual in full. We know of the potential of it happening. And I think thousands of years ago we might have even prepared for it. Potentials were groomed for it. Strove for it. To be selected by the Slayer was to be immortal in a way that undeath could never grant us. But it's been so long. And the Slayer…"

"What about the Slayer?" Giles felt tendrils of unease creep up his spine.

"She isn't what she used to be. She's been…corrupted."

"Corrupted by what?" Giles drew a quick breath when Angel shot him a scathing look.

"By you," Angel accused.

"What?" Giles gasped.

"By the Council, by her prejudice, by ignorance, by too many deaths. The Slayer line has been weakened, and the Source of all Good no longer seeks to blend its essence with its vessel. It's been dormant."

Giles sat back into his seat, absorbing everything Angel told him. It was too unbelievable to be true. All of it. But most of all, he couldn't fathom how it was possible that a vampire had become bound by oath and deed to his Slayer. Nor did he truly know what that meant for her future.

"Will he hurt her?"

Angel didn't speak. He glanced into the back seat, his face hardening at what he saw.

Both men sat forward in their seats, watching as the darkness flew by.

8888

"What do you think happened to Spike back at that clearing?"

Angel's lips tightened at Giles' question.

"There's nothing like it in the watcher diaries. I'm sure of it. But then again, I've never heard of this Oath of Vassalage either. Nor of any Slayer taking a vampire for a vassal." Giles huffed a breath, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. He checked the back seat for the thousandth time, assuring himself that his slayer rested unharmed.

"There's other versions," Angel finally said.

"More?" Giles' tone took on an edge.

"Like I said, it's all rumor and fairy tale. No one really knows the truth."

"Well," Giles prodded when Angel didn't expound further.

Angel rubbed his aching head with two fingers. Tiny spider feet tickled the back of his neck, warning him that dawn was coming.

"You know how I said that vampires used to prepare for vassalage? Strive for it. Want it. Want to be a Potential."

"Yes."

"It's because vassalage endows you with power. It's all part of the _becoming._ " Angel spat the word like it was poison on his tongue.

"You said you didn't know what they become."

"I don't. Just rumor."

Giles straightened in his seat, peering closely at Angelus. "What's the rumor?" he demanded, eyes hard.

"That taking a vampire vassal corrupts the Slayer. Makes her into some sort of vampire/slayer hybrid. They combine powers, becoming stronger. She absorbs the evil energy of the vampire, becoming more demon than angel."

"If that was true, then wouldn't the vampire absorb her energy? Getting a bit of her light?" Giles mulled the idea of that. A vampire endowed with goodness from his connection with the Slayer.

"No!" Angelus spat. "Absolutely not. A vampire is evil to the core. There's not a thing redeemable about the demon."

Giles eyed Angel, whose strong profile was set in stone.

"Unless that vampire has a soul?" Giles murmured, testing.

"That's right," Angel confirmed sternly.

"I see." And Giles did. He saw much he hadn't before, blinded as he was by the romance of a souled vampire, then destroyed by the falsehood of it.

"She deserves better." Angel let loose a pained growl that seemed to resonate from his soul. "She deserves better than some vampire. Any vampire. She deserves everything I could never give her. A man who can love her without fear, a big wedding with a flouncy dress and a ridiculous cake topper, and family picnics in the sunlight. She deserves the world at her feet, Giles."

Giles jumped when Angel slammed the side of his fist against the door. The watcher had never seen the usually collected vampire act so irrationally.

"Do you think I wanted to leave her? I love her. Love her with everything that I am. She's beautiful and perfect, and I was slowly destroying her. God!" His voice broke, his entire body shuddering. "She almost killed Faith for me. A human. Her sister. She was becoming the very thing she hated because of our love. Because of _me._ It nearly destroyed me, but I had to leave her. Had to be the strong one and do the right thing."

Angel scrubbed a hand over his face. "She deserves a chance at life. At love with a real man. Her calling has taken so much from her, but I thought I could at least give her that, give her everything she couldn't have, and now Spike will ruin it. He'll _ruin_ her."

Angel slammed on the brakes, fishtailing the vehicle to a stop beside the road.

"Angel!" Giles barked.

"I won't let it happen," Angel threw open his door, flinging himself out of the vehicle. "She deserves more. She deserves everything that I can give her."

The back door flew open, and Spike, losing his support, half fell from the car. Awake and alert, his hands went to Buffy's waist to keep her from falling, a warning growl rippling from his throat. Buffy's hands went to his shoulders, balancing herself.

They were close. Close enough that Spike could watch as the white band around her eyes expand, swallowing the sweet, innocent green.

No ethereal mistiness seeped from her eyes. No complete washing away of Buffy, leaving behind only the uberbitch.

No, this was Buffy infused with power belonging to her by right of destiny.

She arched her neck, exposing her throat to Spike. Her pulse throbbed, and he had to bite back a moan. He'd tasted her in the glade, so much more powerful than she had been back on the plane. She was changed now, right down into her DNA.

Averting his eyes, he dropped his head so he could see the threat, albeit at an awkward, upside-down angle.

Angel stood over them, lips curled back in a snarl. Behind him the ghost-white light of dawn filtered through the twisted, needle-fringed pine trees.

"Angel!" Giles barked, coming around the back of the vehicle.

"No!" Angel roared. "I won't let her be corrupted by him. I'll save her, even if it means sacrificing myself."

Several things happened at once. Angel reached for Spike. Spike tightened his grip on Buffy. Buffy dug the heels of her hands into Spike's shoulders, rearing up to face the threat.

Then hell broke loose.

Sound died an aborted death, only to be reborn in an ionized hum, growing until it pierced the ear. Wind whipped through the trees, bending them to the ground as a white light expanded through the cab of the vehicle, bowing the windows of the SUV like burgeoning soap bubbles.

"You cannot have what is _mine!_ " Buffy raged, her voice ringing like a bevy of clarions.

Power discharged in a burst of electric white light.

Angel flew back, hitting a pine tree with a loud crack, nearly uprooting it. The SUV rocked _hard._

Giles stumbled against the vehicle.

The trees unbent with a groan; the windows retracted and resettled, leaving a slight rainbow residue in the glass, like oil on water.

Spike went still, blue eyes wide as he stared at the goddess perched above him.

"Soddin' hell," he whispered through stiff lips.

Dropping her head, Buffy looked down at him with unseeing eyes. He watched the power bleed away until her natural green returned, still banded in the faint white glow.

Blinking a few more times, she came back to herself.

"Dawn's coming," she told him, voice sleepy.

"Yeah, Slayer." Spike decided that agreeable was the ticket to staying whole and healthy.

She yawned, looking too bloody much like a kitten for Spike's mental wellbeing, especially in light of what he'd just witnessed, and settled against his chest to sleep.

Hands still at her waist, Spike twisted his head to look at Giles, who gaped at them.

"Little help, mate?"

Giles jolted. "Yes, yes. Of course." He dug out a blanket and settled it carefully over the top of them, trying not to wake Buffy.

"Up," he ordered Spike.

With a crunch of his abs, Spike curled up so Giles could close the door. The back of the SUV opened, camping gear was dragged out, and a few minutes later Giles returned with a slumped Angel leaning heavily on him. Blood coated half the vampire's face, and the way he wrapped his free arm around his waist told of several broken ribs. Giles settled him in the back with a blanket over him.

Just before he covered Angel's face, Giles leaned close. "I suggest you behave yourself. Or next time I'll see you fry, and dance a jig while you do."

Not waiting for an answer, Giles flung the blanket over Angel's face and slammed the hatch shut.

After hauling himself into the driver seat, he twisted to look into the back seat, but all he saw were perfectly still lumps under the blanket. Twisting back around, he started the vehicle and headed to Sunnydale.

888

The sun had sunk low in the sky by the time they pulled into Giles' assigned carport near his apartment.

Giles turned to Buffy in the passenger seat, eyes roaming across her face, not too subtly looking for changes in the girl who was like a daughter to him.

She had woken outside of Sacramento, crawled out from beneath the blanket, and immediately asked for food. Giles had stopped at a convenience station to get her bottled water and snacks, which she accepted with a big smile and even bigger appetite.

Giles went back for thirds.

Still several hours from Sunnydale, they'd taken the time to talk. Buffy related everything she could remember about the last three days, sheepishly admitting it wasn't much because she'd been unconscious through most of it.

What she did tell him shocked him to the core.

William the Bloody, the feared Slayer of Slayers, had rendered care and attention to an injured Slayer. Even going so far as to risk his own life to keep her safe.

Giles honestly didn't know what to do with this information. Instead, he segued to his greater concern: the being manifesting inside Buffy. About this, Buffy had nothing to say. Not even a comment on whether or not she remembered. When asked, she merely turned her face away to stare out the window. The discussion ended, they drove in silence until they reached Sunnydale.

In the back seat, Spike stirred when the vehicle came to a stop. Further back, Angel groaned.

"Giles, will you take Angel inside?" Buffy requested, her entire demeanor subdued in a way that disturbed Giles.

"Yes, of course."

Buffy exited the vehicle when he did, only to slide into the back next to Spike, who rubbed a hand through his sleep-tousled hair as he sat up.

Giles cast her an enigmatic look as he hauled Angel upright, but she didn't glance back at them. Not even when Angelus bore holes into the back of her head with his glare.

Buffy and Spike sat together in the back seat, the silence stretching long after the door to Giles' apartment slammed shut.

"I'm keeping the jacket." Buffy adjusted his duster across her chest, making sure it was still closed.

Spike hollowed his cheeks, casting her a sideways glance from beneath his lashes.

"I know you're leaving," she stated, still staring straight ahead. "But you'll come back for what's yours…eventually."

Spike shifted, averting his gaze so not even her profile could be seen in his peripheral.

"Nothin' here is mine."

The quick intake of Buffy's breath made his entire body snap taut. She moved quickly – quicker than she had ever been capable of in the past – swinging out of her seat, and aiming her small fist at his nose.

Spike's parry was just as impossibly quick. He wrapped his hand around her fist, yanking back until she tumbled into his lap.

He shot a surprised glance at their hands, startled at how fast he had moved. It was something to explore at a later time, most likely when he didn't have an enraged slayer in his lap.

She squirmed, bringing her other fist around for a quick punch. He grabbed that too, pinning her arm between them.

"That's to say," he hissed out, "you own everything that is me."

His declaration froze Buffy's struggles. She peered up at him with huge green eyes banded in white, her pink little mouth hanging open in a round 'o'.

How embarrassing. Spike had no idea where the declaration came from. It just shot out of his mouth, merry as you please. Worse, it was without a shred of guile.

He searched deep, trying and failing to suss out how he felt about that. How he felt about being owned by someone other than Dru. He couldn't find a clear response. It was all too muddled yet to make sense.

"You're mine," she breathed. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a clarification. It was a statement of truth that they both recognized, even if it was hard to digest.

Spike nodded slowly, still staring into her eyes, now dilated with her mixed emotions. "I'm yours, of that I'm certain, but…"

She dropped her gaze, and Spike had to fight with himself not to place his fingers under her chin to tilt her face back to his.

"But you can't stay." She pulled herself from his lap, and he reluctantly let her go. They resettled, side-by-side, each not looking at the other.

Spike rubbed a hand across his brow, staring at the puddles of late afternoon sunlight just beyond the carport. The world outside the car window looked alien – artificial and contrived – after spending so much time in the wild. The manufactured humanness smacked of wrongness.

The light was harsher here, down in the valley of the sun, where humans built their metropolises. The air was acidic, smelling of burning tar and melting plastic. It reeked of hundreds of sweating bodies, heaped on top of each other in their little boxed apartments. All their writhing humanity – the thudding of their sluggish heartbeats, their piggish squeals when fucking or fighting – shrieked a discordant cacophony in Spike's ears.

"Not right now. I need time." It was too confusing. Too intense. He hated the idea of belonging to anyone while at the same time he reveled in it. He wanted to belong, to become, so badly that for a moment he fantasized of launching himself at Buffy, latching on with fists and fangs and never letting her go.

Buffy nodded. "I think I need time too." She rubbed her chest, eyes distant. "I can feel it inside me. Just beneath. So close. It's strong and powerful and…"

"Terrifyin' is the word you're looking for, luv. She's terrifyin'."

Unable to look him in the eye, she clasped her hands in her lap. They sat silently in the growing darkness, neither certain of what to say. Buffy shifted.

He shifted too, sliding his knees towards her, slouching just a bit to see her face. "What is it, luv?"

"I'm…confused." Her eyes met his before flittering away. She too stared at the scenery just outside the window as if it was alien territory. "Unsettled."

"Why?"

"I'm letting you go…off to do your murder and mayhem shtick." She chanced another glance at him, face drawn into tight lines.

Spike watched her a moment, his eyes roving over her angelic features, before he shook his head slowly. "I don't think so. The commandments have changed, and 'thou shalt not murder' is at the top of the list."

"That's always been at the top of the list," she snapped, lips pursed.

"Not mine." Spike's slow and sure smile looked like something the devil must have worn right after he'd tempted Eve into taking a bite of the forbidden fruit.

Buffy watched him for a moment before releasing a long sigh. "No, I suppose not. So things have changed?"

Spike shrugged. "Well, yeah. Can't you feel it?"

Buffy reflected, poking and prodding her insides, only to find the entire landscaped rearranged. That too was unsettling. Knowing she was irrevocably changed, but unable to pinpoint the exact nature of the change. "Yeah. There's…a certainty inside me."

"A certainty?"

"That you're mine." The words slipped out unbidden, shocking her now that she wasn't in the heat of the moment. Eyes wide, she waved her hands in front of her. "Not in a mine, _mine_ kind of way, but you know, you're my…"

"Champion?"

Buffy shrugged. That she wasn't so certain of. After all, she was the champion, wasn't she? Did champions get champions? "I guess I'm just certain that I can count on you. I know you've got my back. I know you'll…"

"Obey?"

The atmosphere crackled. Obey was a dirty word for both of them.

"That you won't break your promises to me," she whispered.

Spike edged closer, taking in her scent of honey and vanilla. "Haven't made any promises," he whispered back.

"Yes, you did," she countered, chin jerking up, eyes flashing. "You swore an oath. That's better than a promise. That's like an…" Buffy frowned, uncertain of the word.

"An oath," Spike purred.

Buffy shot him a dirty look.

Shifting his hips in his seat, Spike had to look away. "Remember that, do you?"

"It's starting to come back. Bits and pieces. It's down there, simmering just beneath my skin with her. She's waiting…"

Spike's head jerked back around to stare at her, body taunt with expectation. Awareness that everything had changed for them, and uncertain of what it meant. "Waiting for what?"

"To show me."

"Show you what?" he prodded, frustration tinting his tone.

" _Everything,_ " she breathed, her eyes flaring with a white hot heat before subsiding to their usual green.

888

Buffy braced herself outside of Giles' apartment. She had waited until Spike had disappeared into the growing twilight, knowing with certainty that he'd be back. He had to. He was tied to her in an elemental way that no one had ever been before.

He wasn't a dog on a leash to be commanded, nor was he suddenly a bosom buddy that couldn't be parted from her side.

They needed time apart to come to terms with the changes inside them as individuals. They needed to learn themselves before they could learn each other.

Spike told her that he had something he needed to dig up before he left town. He promised to stay close, and for the first time she believed a promise made to her. Spike may be leaving, but he wasn't leaving her. The difference was just subtle enough to reassure her.

Spike would be back, and together they would face whatever the universe threw at them. Until then she would learn about herself, grow into her new skin, and come to understand what it meant to be a Slayer.

THE END

Stay tuned for the second part _Becoming,_ set in S5. There will be adorkably confused Scoobs, Riley inferiority, and, of course, sizzling hot Spuffy. And some Becoming…whatever that means.

I want to thank everyone who's read, liked, and reviewed. You guys are awesome. Happy Reading!


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